


ad infinitum

by arcadianwriter (noxstories)



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Check Beginning Notes For More Warnings!!, DREAMON AU, Dark, Gore, Heavy Angst, Horror, M/M, Nightmares, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Please Be Careful Reading!!, Possession, Possession AU, Takes Place In Dream SMP!, dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28393695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noxstories/pseuds/arcadianwriter
Summary: Tommy finds proof there’s a demon living in Dream SMP. It’s closer than he thinks.George doesn’t believe in demons. It’s about time he did.Dream has a past. It's coming back to haunt him in the worst way possible.[ A Dream SMP canon-divergent story about demons, demon hunters, and falling in love amidst the horror.]
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), romance is NOT the main focus lol
Comments: 173
Kudos: 313





	1. the prologue

**Author's Note:**

> yes, another dream smp fic!! i came up with this idea YESTERDAY but instantly fell in love with it. will i necessarily continue it? no, but hopefully i keep up the motivation to do so, because this is shaping up to be fun!!
> 
> this is going to be a dark fic, as usual from me lol, so make sure you read the trigger warnings in these beginning notes in order to stay safe!! 
> 
> just to clear a few things up - this story takes place AFTER l'manburg gain their independence, and BEFORE the elections. schlatt's administration never happened: he's not even in dream smp lands. i also headcanon the different servers/events to exist as individial 'worlds' that one admin controls! in dream smp's case, it's dream (obviously); this might seem stupid but it comes in important!! in this au, dreamons and demons aren't known about at all - they're a myth to frighten kids and nobody truly believes they're real.
> 
> alright, i think that clears some things up!! enjoy!! <3
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THE PROLOGUE: nightmares, dreams of burning alive, child death (only in a dream)

In his dreams, the boy always caught fire. Flames consumed him, twisting up his body in blistering spirals, wrapping round his limbs and pulling him downwards like chains. No matter how he screamed, how he cried, writhed, struggled, sobbed, he couldn’t escape them. It was foolish to try, really, a voice told him, echoing only in his head and coming from all around, he’d never been able to escape before.

Burning alive was a curious experience. It was impossible to explain, mainly because in real life, the unfortunate sufferer was dead rather quickly, and in dreams, it never seemed to end. Death, for the most part, was impossible for the mind to replicate: a small mercy for most people, but at that particular moment, the boy wanted nothing more than death. It was on the edge of his consciousness, edging around his vision while his body withered away to nothing, but it just wouldn’t relieve him. Death hovered, but did not claim. Life watched, but did not save. The boy was left to the flames and the fire.

There were hands, too, that clung to him and whispered in his ears. He couldn’t distinguish them - due to his own pain and due to how indistinct they were, all of them hoarse and urgent and unrecognisable. Small hands, baby hands? Hands from the past, the future, merging as one, all working together to bring him down. The boy screamed out, desperately trying to fight his way to the surface - to no avail. The rest of the Nether had disappeared, leaving him suspended in lava, helpless to burn forever. And it really did feel like forever: time hung still in this dream, and every flame of pain was more intense than the last. Striking out blindly, the boy caught hold of something; a ledge, half submerged in lava. Sobbing in relief, he clung to it, heaving himself half out of the lava, body blackened and burning even as he fought.

A pair of black boots came into view, muddied and bloody. The boy flinched back, and then drew closer, reaching out half-blindly for help. “Please,” he whimpered, fingers spasming as he reached for the other’s boots, “please, help me.”

Dream stared down at him, impassively, blankly. 

“No,” he said, very calmly, “you don’t need help. You’re overreacting.”

The boy sobbed, looking up in confusion, fear. “Y-You don’t  _ understand. _ I don’t k-know where I am, I’m lost, I need help, please,  _ please, _ don’t let me die.”

Slowly, Dream crouched down beside the boy, who shivered and sobbed on the ground at his feet. The lava churned and bubbled for blood. He held out his hands, scooping the boy into them as the world fell away, leaving them on the ledge suspended in midair with the lava further away than ever, but by no means less hot. The heat seared both of their skin, melding them together, burning, blistering. The boy leaned against him, allowing Dream to brush his hair back from his face and cup his cheeks in his hands. It was almost brotherly, he thought dazedly, if Dream was his brother, if this was real. 

But dreams, the uncontrolled ones anyway, never ended the way he wanted them to. In one vicious motion, Dream twisted, shoving the boy so he staggered, limbs too weak to support him, rolling off the side of the ledge and clutching at it with his fingers, drawing blood instantly. In a white-knuckled grip, body pulling him towards his doom, the boy screamed out Dream’s name with wide, desperate eyes.

“PLEASE!”

“You don’t need help,” Dream murmured, “not from me.”

The boy’s arms shook as he tried to heave himself back onto the platform. The world around them was crumbling, and only shattered further when Dream stepped on the boy’s fingers, making him sob in terror.

“I left you behind for a reason,” the older sighed, looking regretful behind the pearl white of his mask, “this is the way it has to be.”

“N-No, we can make it b-better this time, I promise, please, please, I don’t want-”

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“I don’t want to die!”

Dream was silenced by the boy’s outburst. A myriad of emotions flickered over his face, impossible to decipher, and for a second, the boy let himself hope. 

...He’d never known himself as much as he pretended. Dream’s boot, studded and cruel, pressed harder on his numb, achingly cold fingers, and the boy screamed as he fell, animalistic and desperate. Dream watched him fall, crossing his arms in the sudden lack of warmth. Before he hit the lava, the world fell apart completely, and Dream woke up in bed.

Breathing heavily, soaked in sweat, Dream hunched over, clenching his hands into fists in his hair and forcing himself to take deep, steadying breaths. Without thinking, he pulled his mask back over his face to cover it, seeing its dull glow and feeling a wave of calm wash over him. He was alright. Nothing bad could happen to him now. He wasn’t back there. He wasn’t that kid anymore.

“Dream?” Sapnap, ever watchful, ever awake, stumbled sleepily into his room, stifling a yawn. “You okay? Thought I heard you jumping awake.”

Dream took a moment to answer, checking the time on his communicator. It blurred in front of him. “Fine,” he said, voice even and soft, “I’m fine. Just a bad dream.”

His best friend stared at him, something older in his gaze, something worried. Dream looked up at him, eyes tired behind the mask, glad he’d put it on to hide his exhaustion. This was his fifth nightmare in four days, and he didn’t see them abating any time soon. “You sure?”

“Check the time, Sap,” he urged, falling back into bed with a yawn, “what’s the time?”

Sapnap pulled out his own communicator, silent for a long second. Dream, suddenly frightened, jerked bolt upright in bed, clambering out and standing on unsteady feet. 

“Sapnaop. What’s the  _ time?” _

“Sorry,” the younger murmured, voice unsure, “sorry, it’s—”

Dream’s heart sped up. 

“It’s 4:13.”

He reeled back like he’d been shot, heart dropping to his stomach.

“4:14,” Sapnap amended, glancing at his communicator again, and Dream sucked in a breath, shakily, “sorry. It got stuck, stupid thing."

A beat.

"Are you sure you’re okay?”

There were so many wrong answers to that question. Truthful, yes, but wrong. Dream forced himself to leave one beat, then two, for his breath to steady completely, and for his heart rate to begin to drop back to normal. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “just nightmares. You?”

“Yeah, same.” Sapnap scoffed, shooting him a softer look, one that he’d never see in the harsh light of day. “Who’d’ve thought it would be nightmares that kept us troubled after all the shit we’ve been through in the past, huh?”

Ignoring the coldness of the last section of his sentence, Dream laughed lightly, careful not to be too loud. He didn’t want to wake George, after all. “Kept you troubled, you mean. I had a dream about those iron doors again. Nothing…”

_ Nothing _ hovered in the air for too long to continue the joke. His shoulders slumped slightly.

“You don’t want me to get George, do you?” Sapnap asked, gnawing on his lip. Dream thought longingly of the other member of his team — George, with his stupid glasses and his bright smile and the butterflies he’d get in his stomach when George laughed. He knew he’d feel much better with him here; despite knowing this, he shook his head firmly. He’d hurt enough people, and it was bad enough Sapnap was forced to know everything. The less George knew about this, about  _ anything,  _ the better. 

“Go back to sleep, you idiot,” he urged Sapnap, who yawned in response, “big day tomorrow. A lot to do. I don’t want you do be grouchy in the morning because you didn’t get enough sleep, you big baby.”

Sapnap shot him a disgruntled look, running his hand through his hair. “At least I don’t piss the bed,” he snarked, smirking and dodging a pillow thrown at him, “sweet dreams, Dreamie-Poo. Love you.”

“You’re such an idiot. I love you too.” Dream couldn’t quite help a wheeze as Sapnap closed the door, shaking his head in amusement. The comedy of his best friend quickly fell flat, however, when the shadows in his room grew longer and the moon grew paler without Sapnap around for company. Scolding himself for being so stupid, Dream forced himself into bed, pulling the blankets over his head like he’d done as a kid and closing his eyes. The wide, terrified expression of his younger self in his dream kept him thinking, though, making sleep feel impossible. It felt like something important. It felt like a threat. Of all the fucked up dreams he’d had, this one seemed to stick in his head like slime. What was it trying to tell him?

...He sounded like Bad, trying to interpret his own dreams. What a stupid thing to do. It was irrational, and he was nothing if not rational. With a huff and a scoff, Dream rolled over, coming face to screen with his communicator. For a moment, he hesitated, fingers itching to light it up, check the time, check it wasn’t…

That it wasn’t…

But Sapnap had already confirmed what time it was. It wasn’t then. He wasn’t there. Shoving the communicator away from him and wishing he’d stop being such a baby, he turned away again, and settled down to sleep. He hadn’t been lying when he said it was a long day. He had so many things to do. The more sleep he got, the better. And in the morning sun, his dream would be nothing - he wouldn’t be surprised if he forgot it entirely.

The communicator lit up as Dream closed his eyes, the time glowing in the dim lighting of the torch in the room. 

_ 4:13am.  _

Another storm dawned with the day. 


	2. dirty crime boys club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dirty Crime Boys have a reunion after years of inactivity when Tommy reveals that members of the SMP have gone missing mysteriously. 
> 
> Dream pays a surprising visit, with even more surprising news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter one!! i had such fun writing this - i've never written from tommy's perspective before, so i hope i did him justice sdbvksd. this is an intro chapter, really - more and more things will be cleared up as we go!!
> 
> for now - phil has been in other servers/worlds for years and years, and since he had no way of getting to the dream smp without an invite from dream (that he only just received), he couldn't see his sons in there. the dirty crime-fighting boys was a club tommy, wilbur and tubbo started as kids, and tommy has just brought it back now!! fundy is trans in this story (and in canon dream smp too i'm p sure!) but it won't be a big part of the story. 
> 
> i hope you enjoy!! not many trigger warnings for this chapter, but stay safe reading nonetheless!!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER - discussions about death, disappearances, swearing, minor violence + thoughts about violence, discussions of a séance + ghosts!
> 
> if you need any other triggers tagged, or have any questions, pls just let me know!! enjoy reading :)

“Boys, and Man,” Tommy began gravely, “you know why we’re gathered here today.”

There was a mutter of agreement, but it was too dark to properly tell who said what. Only Tubbo’s face was properly visible, the candlelight illuminating his best friend the clearest due to being the closest to him. Tubbo looked serious for perhaps the first time in his life, hands folded in his lap, looking up at Tommy earnestly for him to go on. Wilbur and Fundy were somewhere in the room too, alongside Quackity, who seemed decidedly more spooked by their initiation ceremony than Tommy would have liked. 

“What the fuck,” Quackity said, voice a pitch higher than usual, “this is the fucking  _ worst,  _ Tommy. I feel like I’m in some sort of cult.”

“Am I the man?” Wilbur asked with a snort. “Because you didn’t need to make me sound so old, you arsehole.”

“I want to be the man,” Tubbo complained, “I am seventeen in a few months after all.”

Tommy wisely ignored them all. “Boys, and Man—”

“If I’m not the man, it’s transphobia,” Fundy said idly from the shadows, amusement in his words.

“... _ Boys,  _ and Two Men,” Tommy raised his volume over the snickers from Fundy and the discontent grumbling from everyone else, “you know why we’re gathered here today. For too long, this has been laid to rest. We’ve been lazy. Sloppy. Preoccupied with other things, as if this hasn’t been of utmost importance!!”

“In our defense,” Wilbur said in the darkness, “we were fighting a war against the most powerful person we know.”

Tommy pointed sternly at him. “Look—”

“Other way. I’m over here.”

“I am going to punch you if you don’t stay quiet, Wilbur.” When silence fell, Tommy took that as his cue to continue, allowing himself to get back on track. Normally, he’d be delighted to fall back into bickering and insulting his brother, but this was not a normal day. They had business, serious business. “But no more. Tonight, we’re back, and better than ever. And this time?” 

He grinned, adrenaline and glee running through him. 

“Dirty Crime Boys Incorporated have a proper case. Fundy! Begin taking notes!”

Without waiting to see if the boy was doing so, Tommy continued speaking grandly, voice echoing around the base. 

“We are joined tonight by Quackity, AKA Big Q, AKA Big Quack, AKA Massive Prick, after he told Tubbo and I a rather interesting story. Big Q! Take it away. Recount the story exactly as it happened. Don’t leave anything out.”

Quackity got to his feet, looking decidedly confused. “Man, I literally wasn’t even there for what happened, how am I supposed to know if this is an accurate retelling?”

“Big Q!” Tommy scowled, crossing his arms. “Am I the leader here or you? I know what’s fucking best.”

“And I could be a lawyer,” Tubbo said wisely, “don’t make me pull out Big Law.”

There was an instant scramble to comply and move on with events. Nobody wanted Tubbo to be Big Law. Big Law frightened them all for different reasons, but they unified in the common goal to keep Tubbo from pulling out one of his many personas. 

“Right, right, so this is how Sam told it to me,” Quackity began immediately, pushing his hands into his pockets and clearing his throat, “so there used to be other people living here too, before you came along Wilbur, alongside Dream and his friends. Alyssa, Skeppy and Callahan. They—”

“I don’t remember ever hearing about any of them in your recount of events when I joined, Tommy,” Wilbur said, confusion in his voice, “and you told me every inane little detail.”

“Exactly!” Tommy crowed, pointing at Wilbur once more in agreement. “That’s—”

“Other  _ way,  _ Tommy, it’s not  _ that  _ dark in here.”

“That’s exactly my point! None of us remember them! None of us know who they are. But according to Big Q, they played a big part in the start of the first disagreements Dream and I had over the discs. But  _ I  _ don’t remember them. And neither does Tubbo.”

Fundy laughed, rolling his eyes. “Then it’s a prank. Quackity is joking and you actually fell for it.”

“I’m not!” Quackity looked offended, turning to face Fundy and throwing a piece of string at him. “I would never joke in my life!”

Tommy thought of all the pranks Quackity had pulled on the server already. “Exactly, Fundy,” he admonished, “Big Q would  _ never _ do something like that, what is  _ wrong  _ with you?”

“And he has photographic evidence!” Tubbo said triumphantly. “You can’t take photographic evidence of a joke!”

“Well,” Wilbur said contemplatively, “ _ technically—” _

Tommy threw a pillow at him viciously. “Can I have Exhibits A and B on display?” He demanded, and Quackity scrambled to pull out two crumpled photographs from his pocket. Tommy took them eagerly, holding them close to the candle and beckoning everyone to crowd round. They all did, examining the photos curiously. 

The photos had been taken just before the war, judging from the lack of blood or griefing or damage done to the place. Six teenagers stood outside the Community House, all of them laughing at something the boy in the white bandana — Sapnap, as a teenager, Quackity theorized before — had said. The one in the mask looking pale and apprehensively amused was clearly Dream, and Bad was easy to recognize. The other three, however, were entirely unfamiliar, in the oddest way. Tommy knew everything and everyone on the SMP, and knew he’d never forget anyone, no matter how short a time they were on the server for: so why couldn’t he remember them?

And this might have been excusable as Tommy simply not being on the server, if not for the second picture. Tommy was the main focus of this one, having jumped in front of the camera and ruined the phone (or improved it). Dream, Sapnap and Bad were still in the photo, but so was the strange woman that Tommy didn’t recognize, and the shirt Tommy was wearing was one he’d bought only weeks before Wilbur had joined - he remembered this well, because he’d lost it before he’d gotten the chance to meet Wilbur in it, and had been horribly disappointed. So how could he have taken a photo in it and not remember? Why didn’t he find the girl familiar in the slightest?

“That,” Fundy said eventually, “is a very strange sight.”

“Right?” Quackity agreed, frowning. “Tommy swears to God he doesn’t remember this being taken-”

“I don’t.”

“-And also that he has no idea who these people are. And when I tried to investigate further, when I tried to push Sam?” Quackity paused for effect, eyes gleaming. “He said he didn’t wanna talk about it anymore. That I shouldn’t mention it to anyone at any point, least of all anyone in the photo.”

“Tommy’s in the photo,” Tubbo pointed out, “you kind of screwed Sam over.”

Quackity didn’t even look apologetic. “Oops. My bad.”

“But this clears nothing up,” Wilbur said, frustration in his voice, and when Tommy turned to look for him, he found his older brother pacing, clearly mystified, “why are there people on the server nobody remembers other than Sam and, presumably Dream? Why aren't we allowed to talk about them? And why did you call this meeting, Tommy, when this club has been disbanded for years and years? We  _ know _ that-”

“If you say one more time that ghosts don’t exist, Wilbur Soot, then I am going to scream,” Tommy interrupted very calmly, “I will. Don’t test me, bitch.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes, taking the photo and examining it. “Then explain, so I don’t have to repeat my question.”

“Because,” Tubbo said, savoring his words, “Skeppy is dead.”

Wilbur’s head shot up, and Fundy’s eyes widened. “No,” Fundy murmured, “surely you can’t be meaning we’re going to-”

“We’re going to hold a _séance,_ bitch,” Tommy grinned, all teeth and glee, “and we’re going to get to the bottom of this.”

Quackity looked startled, wings flapping in alarm. “Tommy,” he said, “is that the best idea, man? That sounds dangerous as shit.” 

“Maybe there’s a reason we’ve forgotten,” Fundy said ominously, “do we really want the truth?”

Tommy scowled at them all, lifting up the candle and turning it to meet every single person’s eyes. “Have you forgotten our promises?” He demanded heatedly. “Have you forgotten everything we’ve been fuckin’ working towards? Where are your balls? We,” he continued proudly, drawing the word out, “are the Dirty Crime Boys. And Men. But mostly Boys. We all knew what we were signing up for when we joined!”

“I didn’t,” Quackity said despondently, “I didn’t even sign up.”

“And we all knew that our lives would one day be in danger, yet passed the initiation anyway!”

_ “I _ didn’t!!  _ What _ initiation?!”

Tommy snickered, struggling to keep his façade. “Easy, Big Q, your initiation will be the séance. That’s our initiation for little bitches, which you are. You can’t even  _ imagine  _ what the rest of us went through.”

Fundy shuddered at the thought, and Tommy grinned at him, making the younger move away from him. “It really was awful,” he agreed, crossing his arms over his chest, “Tommy made us walk through a forest blindfolded at night while creepers exploded around us. I barely survived.”

Tubbo  _ stared. _ “Fundy, your experience was not universal,” he said solemnly, “I just had to give Tommy one of my music discs. It really wasn’t that big a deal.”

“I bullied him into letting me join,” Wilbur said agreeably, reaching over to hit the back of his brother’s head, “Tommy, what the fuck did you do to my son?”

“Anyway!” Tommy avoided the question and also Fundy’s angry exclamations, “everyone settle down, no hurting the leader! Now, I say this is what happens. We set a date for the séance, and gather items we need. We need something of Skeppy’s, something suitably enchanted-looking for the aesthetic, candles, and a way for him to communicate with us. And it needs to be night time, for- for ambience.”

He had no idea what ambience meant, but it was what he’d read online, and Tubbo looked impressed, so Tommy ploughed ahead proudly.

“We talk to him, find out what he knows, and then we confront Sam with the truth!”

“The truth about what?” Came a dryly amused voice from the doorway. “What’re you guys doing?”

The door opened, bright light flooding into the room with the flick of a light switch. Fundy jumped, Tommy flipped a chair, Tubbo extinguished the candles, the rest of them scrambled to cover up their tracks. Dream stood there, tall and slouched, looking incredibly amused behind his porcelain mask. As usual, he was dressed head to toe in dark green and black, and Tommy felt his fight or flight reflexes kick in. 

“Dream!” He snapped, stepping forwards fiercely. “Get out of our basement!! You interrupted our meeting!”

“You did just barge in,” Fundy said sheepishly, “we were kind of busy.”

“Busy doing what?” Dream asked lightly. Despite the nonchalance in his tone, Tommy had to resist the urge to copy Tubbo and squirm uncomfortably. “Oh, wait, I know exactly what you’re doing. This is that little club you started, right? The- What’s it called, the, like…”

“The Dirty Crime Boys,” Tubbo provided helpfully. Dream clicked his fingers in clarity, smiling at Tubbo.

“Right, right, the Dirty Crime Babies.”

“Boys,” Tommy grumbled, “men, really.”

“Crime Babies,” Dream mused, as if he hadn’t heard, “sure sounds interesting. I would watch that, if it was a TV show or something.”

Tommy contemplated murdering Dream where he stood. Oh, he’d never wanted the green asshole dead more. _Ooh, you want to drop dead so bad,_ he urged Dream in his head, _you know you want to._

Dream, unfortunately, did not drop dead, and Tommy only felt himself slip into a worse mood, one only exacerbated when Wilbur laid a hand on his shoulder. “Is there something you want, Dream?” He asked cordially, but there was an edge to his voice. Wilbur didn’t appreciate anyone bullying his younger brothers if it wasn’t him or Phil - the fact it was Dream only made his temper flare up more. “You didn’t come here just to mock us for having a hobby when your only hobby literally consists of being creepy and stalking us from the trees.”

In Wilbur’s defense, Dream’s cheeks flushed darkly, and the masked man turned his head away to cough in embarrassment. “It was one time,” he protested, “only because I thought Tommy was planning something-”

“I was, bitch, I was planning to kill you, just like I’m doing right now-”

“You’re such a problem child, Tommy,” Dream told him with a huff, turning back to Wilbur, “but yeah, yes, I’m here to tell you something and ask something, specifically of you, Wilbur.”

“Oh?” Wilbur arched an eyebrow, curious. 

Dream cleared his throat, clasping his hands behind his back. When he wasn’t being all intimidating and villainous, Tommy thought, Dream was actually quite awkward around people, especially a lot of them - which was hilarious, because of  _ course  _ the arsehole was an introvert despite literally starting a war against them. “I’ve invited someone to the server,” Dream said, after a moment, “someone of interest to you.”

“Just spit it out, Dream,” Quackity said, and Tommy snickered in agreement, “don’t play games, man.”

“Fine.” A beat. “It’s Phil. Your… dad.”

Tommy didn’t listen anymore, whooping in delight and turning to Wilbur eagerly. “Philza Minecraft himself!” He crowed, seeing his own joy reflected in Wilbur and Tubbo’s faces. It had been so long since any of them had seen their dad - after the three of them had gotten an invitation to the Dream SMP server, their only communication with their father had been through letters and the occasional visit to other servers. To hear he'd be coming here, to their home... "Fucking finally! It’s about fucking time!”

“Why?” Tubbo asked Dream, grinning widely with a new shine in his eyes. “Why invite him now?”

“Yeah, what changed your mind?” Wilbur prodded. At Dream’s silence, he scoffed. “Come on, there has to be something. You didn’t just suddenly change your mind. I know you. What’s happened?”

“...I need a favor from him,” Dream said eventually, evasively, “something I can’t get from anyone else. That’s actually what I need you to do for me. As soon as he appears, let him know I need him, alright?”

This caught Tommy by surprise. In all his years of knowing Dream, through the whole year and a half he’d been on the server, he’d never known the masked man to need anyone - except maybe George, who always seemed to be an exception to every rule in Dream’s case, not that anyone was surprised by that. Dream was so independent it hurt - he had friends, but led them around, and Tommy didn’t doubt he’d drop them at the slightest hint he needed to do so. So the fact Dream needed someone now, needed Phil, of all people, certainly made him curious - and suspicious. 

“Will do,” Wil replied, eyes sharp and prodding, but Dream’s mask revealed nothing, “anything else?”

“Nope.” Dream tilted his head, glancing around at them all, before smiling faintly. “Just enjoy time with Phil while he’s here. I’m sure you all missed him.”

“Yeah,” Tommy snorted, “no thanks to you. Can you get the fuck out now? We’re busy.”

“Tommy,” Wilbur cautioned. Tubbo and Quackity snickered quietly.

Tommy sighed, grinning inwardly. “Sorry, sorry. Can you get the fuck out,  _ please?” _

“Sure, sure,” Dream murmured, already halfway out the door, before he turned back around to face them. “What were you doing, though? Because if it involved griefing or killing or anything annoying, I highly recommend you don’t do it. It might make all the difference in the election, you know.”

“We would never do anything illegal in our lives,” Fundy said, faux-innocently. 

Dream looked fed up. “Your country’s  _ existence _ is illegal, Fundy.”

“Your face is illegal, bitch!” Tommy smirked. “Get-”

A crack of something, and darkness flooded the room with the sound. Tubbo jumped, Fundy flinched back, and Tommy certainly did not scream. Wilbur lit a candle, holding it up. “Is everyone alright?”

“The light blew, I think.” Dream’s voice sounded quieter than before. Tommy turned to face him, hand going for his sword. He didn’t trust his enemy not to use this to his advantage. And then-

And then he paused, because Dream was _glowing._

Well, not Dream, but his mask. It gave off a pale light, glowing eerily in the blackness of the room. It was just bright enough that Tommy could make out Tubbo’s face next to him, staring entranced and stunned in equal parts. “Dream,” his brother said, cautiously, “do you know you’re glowing?”

Dream opened the door again, allowing daylight to floor in. As soon as he did so, his mask went back to normal; despite this, static hung in the air, thick and uncertain. Tommy didn’t dare speak - he was too busy staring at Dream, frowning, working something out, trying to put together the pieces of the puzzle. Dream’s mask glowed. Dream had known Skeppy at some point. Dream was the admin of the server. Dream was a certified _Bad Guy,_ in Tommy’s incredibly unbiased opinion.

…Hmm.  _ Hmm. _

“My mask?” Dream’s hand strayed to it, touching the rim of it almost self consciously. “Yeah, hah, it does that sometimes. It was made from a modified block on another server I was once part of, one that glows in the dark-”

“Which one?” Tommy asked, bluntly. Dream stammered.

“Come on, now, you can’t expect me to remember something that happened literally well over a decade ago.” He laughed lightly, sounding awkward. “You should probably light some more candles in here. It’s pretty dark. So, remember to tell Phil for me, and… I’ll be on my way. I’ll let you get back to your little Child Club, or whatever.”

“Dirty Crime Boys,” Tommy muttered peevishly, but his mind was moving too quickly for him to focus long enough on it to be really mad about it, “goodbye, dickhead. May we never meet again.”

Dream’s eye roll didn’t need to be visible to have the same effect. With a wave, the admin left, and instantly, Wilbur passed candles around. 

“Light ‘em up, boys,” he said brightly, “God, it’s cold in here. Has it always been this cold?”

“It is getting pretty late,” Tubbo pointed out, “does anyone know what time it is?”

Quackity fumbled with his communicator, pulling it out and squinting at the bright screen. “4:13,” he said, “wait, no- 6:13. Fucking 24 hour clocks. I hate them. They’re so stupid.”

“Only if the person reading them is stupid,” Fundy said sweetly, and Quackity attacked him rather viciously with a pillow, to Fundy’s horror.

Tubbo joined in, laughing hysterically, but Wilbur, seeing the calculating, contemplative look on his face, sidled over to Tommy, nudging him gently with his elbow. 

“You’re thinking too much.”

Tommy blinked, tuning back into the present. “Huh?”

“I said, you’re thinking too much.” Wilbur gave him a look. “I don’t like it when you do that. It never bodes well for us. Are you thinking about Skeppy and the photos?”

Tommy hesitated. Did he confide in Wilbur, or not? Did he dare? “Sort of,” he said, evasively. “Thinking about Dream, too. He’s a bad one, Wil. Just a real wrongin. I don’t like him.”

Wilbur snorted. “He did start a war and kill you twice. I’m not exactly surprised.”

“No, no, Wil, I mean it.” Tommy’s eyes darted away to the door where Dream had been only moments before. “I don’t like him. Something’s off about him. And you saw his fuckin’ mask, too. I just…” He paused, sighing. Dream’s stupid white smile mask burned into his brain.

His glowing, eerie mask that never seemed to leave his face nowadays.

Hm.

Tommy turned to Wilbur, mischief in his gaze.

“I think I have an idea for one of the items for the séance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tommyinnit is the biggest fool known in the dream smp in this fic, let it be known lmao
> 
> that concludes chapter 1!! if you enjoyed, pls leave a like and/or comment - they really help keep me motivated!!
> 
> george's chapter is coming up next - it'll probably be shorter than this, but who knows? i have about a quarter of this fic planned and the rest i'm winging lol, so i really have no idea what's gonna happen in the future (sort of a lie, i have a,, very Rough outline in my head sdbfkd)
> 
> i hope you enjoyed! thank you so much for reading :)


	3. horror movie haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is used to spending most of his life dreaming. Dream is the only one who makes him feel like he's on fire.
> 
> It's when he's awake like this, however, that he picks up on the mysteries nobody seems to want to talk about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year everyone !! i hope you all have an amazing 2021 :D this chapter is a little later but i was super busy finishing the first draft of my original book 'coded', so hopefully i'll be better at uploading in the future!! george's perspective - again, i've never written george before, so hopefully i make him interesting and complex and you enjoy reading :)
> 
> EXPLANATION - communicators are the in-game chat, basically!! every character also has a watch they can't take off that shows them a) their hearts and b) their lives. some choose to keep it hidden, some choose to display it, others don't care. i think that's everything that needs explaining, but as always, if you have any questions, pls let me know!!
> 
> this is a fairly happy light chapter, so not many trigger warnings! that being said, be careful!
> 
> triggers - food, horror movie mention, fire mention, insomnia, swearing, very minor violence

George was a man of very simple pleasures. Comfort, friends, amusement and sleep. That was all he really wanted in life - and it was what his friends strived to give him. Living in a house with Dream, Sapnap and Bad was the perfect situation for him, especially after the war; which had been vaguely amusing at first, mildly concerning second, and really quite awful at the end. Dream had taken it far too far, as he was prone to in moments of high emotion or pressure, but it was over now, and George was pleased that his friend had, for the most part, returned to his usual, carefree self; cracking jokes, appearing out of nowhere, commencing manhunts left right and centre and generally being the friend he’d been before the war. George did his best to return to that same easy normalcy too, as did Bad and Sapanp - though they weren’t always successful. He knew he wasn’t the only one who woke up with nightmares, knew the sound of Sapnap’s midnight pacing intimately, was all too familiar with Bad’s flinches whenever there was an unexpected loud noise. Dream was far from a perfect actor, too; George had lost count of the amount of times Dream had left the room to avoid snapping at them, couldn’t keep up with how often Dream went vacant behind his eyes, covering it with his mask as soon as he realised. George himself wasn’t innocent - nothing particularly detrimental or earth-shattering had happened to him during the war, but war was war, and recently, he’d found sleeping to avoid any negative thoughts or feelings regarding the event a particularly apt way to avoid them. His friends tried to keep him awake, but there was something so peaceful about sleeping, about dreaming - bad things in dreams could be waved off. Reality couldn’t.

So no, they were far from alright, but they were trying, and that, to George, was the main thing.

“George,” Sapnap said, very deliberately, “you are the worst person I know.”

“Sapnap, come on,” Bad replied, scandalised, “that’s harsh.”

“No it’s not, Bad.” Looking very annoyed, Sapnap scowled at George, who only sipped his drink nonchalantly in the face of his friend’s indignation. “He knows exactly what he’s doing. Dream lets him get away with way too much, and I’m sick of it!”

“Well, I’m not going to do it because you ask me to,” George said reasonably, opening a bag of chips - they were nearly out, they’d have to get more soon, “so there’s no point asking anymore.”

“I swear to fuck, George-”

“Language!”

Sapnap continued like Bad hadn’t interjected. “I am going to come over there and slap you to death.”

“Oh, no.” George yawned, stretching out on the couch catlike and reclining, pulling his glasses off to nap. The world reverted back to familiar dull colours - yellows and blues, varying only in intensity and shade. “I’m so scared, Sapnap. Whatever am I going to do.”

“If it’s any help,” Bad said, mildly amused, more frustrated, “I can take the trash out. It’s really not that big a deal-”

“No, no, it is!” Sapnap said dramatically, getting to his feet and crossing the room towards George on the couch. George merely closed his eyes sleepily. “When was the last time George took the trash out, huh? Can you even remember?”

“November,” George murmured, half asleep already, “I think.”

“ _ November- _ It’s July, George!!” Sapnap had never sounded more betrayed. “Do you know how often I’m forced to take the trash out? We’re supposed to alternate every two weeks, and it’s  _ your  _ weeks now, asshole. I’m not-”

_ “Language.” _

“I’m not gonna let you get away with this!” Sapnap grabbed hold of George’s ankles, and, in one swift movement, dragged him off the couch onto the floor. George yelped, chips going flying and hitting his head against the floor. His watch beeped in annoyance, and, checking it, he saw to his dismay he’d actually lost half a heart from that. 

“Sapnap, you idiot-”

“Take the trash out right now or I’m gonna take your chips.”

“I’m colourblind,” George whined, “I can’t even see it.”

Bad stifled his laugh; when George looked over at him, he tried to put on a serious face. “That’s not how that works, George, come on, you have to do it at some point,” he reprimanded, coughing to hide his giggles, “we’re a team - living together means having good teamwork, you know.”

Sapnap crowed triumphantly, pinning George with a smirk. “Two against one, Georgie. Trash time.”

“Two against two,” Bad corrected absently, crossing to the cupboard to pull out cereal, “Skeppy says he’s on George’s side, but he doesn’t count - that muffin hasn’t taken out the trash in forever.”

An uneasy silence briefly fell over them. Bad was immune to it, turning away with a chuckle and making himself some cereal. George, briefly forgetting his fight with Sapnap, traded an uncertain look with him - neither of them said anything, because there was nothing that needed to be said. There was just something slightly off putting about Bad’s imaginary friend that had them both spooked; maybe it was because Bad was consistent with his story about him, or maybe it had something to do with the fact Skeppy was mysteriously absent from every conversation while Dream was around.

“Three against two,” Sapnap broke the silence, “cause Dream would be on my side.”

George scrambled off the floor, picking up his chip bag and frowning at it. “That’s just not true,” he said, rolling his eyes, “in the slightest.”

“He’s the one that has to take the trash out when you don’t!” Sapnap flung a pillow at him; George ducked under it nimbly, wincing as it whizzed over his head straight into a plant pot, shattering it entirely. “Now look what you’ve done, you idiot!”

“Look what  _ I’ve  _ done? That was  _ literally _ you, don’t even-”

“Did I hear something smash?” Came a wryly amused voice. 

Bad brightened, waving at someone just past Sapnap. “Oh, Dream! Hi!”

Sapnap spun around like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, revealing Dream standing in the doorway. George’s heart did an odd little flutter; there was a fire burning in his chest, he realised, and he wasn’t entirely sure when it had been lit. Dream was grinning underneath the mask - what wouldn’t George give for his friend to stop hiding under it? - though there was an edge of something else in his smile, something tense, something on edge. Striding further into the room, Dream surveyed the damage while Sapnap grinned triumphantly at George, turning to Dream beseechingly.

“Dream, Dream, tell George to start doing the fucking trash,” he whined, ignoring Bad’s disapproval at his cursing, “come on, don’t you get tired doing it all the time? Take my side!”

“You want him to  _ do _ the trash?” Dream didn’t need to have his mask off for all of them to imagine his eyebrow raise. “Sapnap, you’re so weird.”

George couldn’t help but roll his eyes while Sapnap spluttered, flushing darkly. “You know that wasn’t what I-”

“Yeah, Sapnap,” George joined in, stifling his snickers, “what is it with you and wanting me to  _ do _ the trash? Is there something you’re not telling us?”

Dream wheezed, hand disappearing under his mask presumably to wipe at his eyes. Bad’s laughter came from the kitchen, but George couldn’t take his eyes off Dream for the time being. His friend’s presence in the room was always magnetic - George just felt drawn to him whenever he was around, and he knew the same happened to Dream with him. “As it so happens, I just took the trash out,” Dream managed to chuckle out, shaking his head fondly and pulling his hood down, “so George, you live another day.”

“Simp,” Sapnap huffed at Dream, flopping over the armchair with a sigh, “I’m totally alone. So much for the Dream Team. It’s the Dream  _ and George _ Team versus me.”

Dream ruffled his hair with a grin as he passed, still laughing to himself. George hid a smile; the last thing he wanted was for someone to think he found Dream’s lame joke funny, because it wasn’t entirely true - the thing making him smile was Dream’s laughter, which came so rarely nowadays. 

“C’mon, Sap, don’t be a drama queen. Let’s have a Dream Team night, alright?” Dream flung himself down on the couch George had been on only moments before; George settled down beside him, tucking his legs into himself and curling around a pillow with a yawn. “Just the four of us. Bad, are you coming over? It’s been way too long since we all did this.”

It  _ had _ been forever. George strained in his memory, that blurred all the days into one another, into a confusing jumble of sleeping and waking and  _ existing, _ to recall their last proper day spent together. To his dismay, it had been  _ months _ ago - just after the war, when Dream had wordlessly appeared after a week of hiding himself away to drop down on George’s bed beside him, and Sapnap and Bad had appeared to join them, and they’d spent the day quiet and just revelling in the company of friends, family, really, at this point. A Dream Team night would be nice - Sapnap seemed to think so too, because his face lit up with a brilliant grin. 

“Are you sure, man? You’ve been tired lately, and-”

“I wouldn’t suggest it if I wasn’t up for it,” Dream said cheerfully, “come on, Bad. What’ll we do? I’ve missed hanging out with you all. We deserve a break.”

“Coming, coming!” Bad beamed as he came over, tail wiggling in happiness. “Ooh, can we watch a movie? There are so many good ones we haven’t watched yet!”

George flicked open his communicator idly to check the time.  _ 4:13pm _ . Not quite late enough for the ambience of what he was about to suggest, but late enough. “We should watch horror,” he said lazily, “have we ever all watched a horror film together? I don’t think we have, right?”

Silence. George quirked an eyebrow, glancing up to check on his friends - who, more than anything, were very rarely silent, so their sudden quiet now was mildly unsettling. Bad was stiff, glancing over his shoulder and mouthing something, presumably to one of his imaginary friends, George thought with amused fondness, while Sapnap wouldn’t make eye contact with anybody. Dream was unnervingly still.

George winced inwardly. “Or not, if you’re all scared,” he said, playing it off.

Sapnap coughed, looking out the window. “No, no, I just don’t know if it’s a good-”

“I’m down with horror,” Dream said casually, lounging back on the couch and tilting his face towards Sapnap, expression imperceptible behind his mask, “unless you’re frightened, Sap.”

Sapnap’s head snapped to face Dream, and George, though often oblivious to things, didn’t miss the wary look that crossed his expression. “You sure?”

“Got a movie in mind, George?” Dream asked instead of answering, and Sapnap frowned very lightly. Bad squirmed, turning away. 

“Oh!” The demon exclaimed, with forced lightness. “I have to go and meet Ant - I promised I’d give him cookies the next time I baked, so are you guys okay to continue without me? I’ll come back later, pinky promise.”

“Only if you pinky promise,” Dream pouted teasingly, holding out his pinky finger, which Bad took with a chuckle, “we miss you already. Get back soon, yeah?”

Sapnap mumbled a goodbye, while George waved at his demon friend, mystified by the change in atmosphere while Bad skipped away, leaving the house. Had Sapnap had a bad experience with horror movies he didn’t know about? Resolving to ask Dream later about it, George shrugged, flicking through the TV channels absently. “I dunno. Uh, how about this?”

He settled on a channel with a menacing figure looming over a silently screaming couple. Dream snickered at the corniness of it, and even Sapnap looked a little less skittish - though this didn’t stop his eyes flickering to Dream as if waiting for a killer to pounce behind their best friend and kill him. “Sounds good to me,” Dream said casually, kicking his legs up and resting them against George was a mischievous grin. George rolled his eyes at him, nudging the foot closest to him with a huff. 

“You’re such an idiot.”

Sapnap hushed them both as the movie picked up the plot, and George settled back on the couch, eyes already growing heavy. Dream’s weight beside him on the couch was a comfort, and he found himself losing focus on the film, stifling a yawn-

_ Lava. A boy screaming. A man without a face. _

His eyes shot open. 

His neck ached, and George internally scolded himself for falling asleep on the couch. It was an increasingly bad habit - one that had decidedly negative consequences for back and neck and, due to this, his mood. The snoring to the left of him signalled Sapnap was there - a small comfort to hear, because the thought of being entirely alone in the dark wasn’t a pleasant one. Wincing and trying to stretch, his legs brushed against other legs; his heart jolted for a second, inexplicitly, before he realised. 

“Hey,” Dream murmured, hidden in the darkness, “you okay?”

_ Had a nightmare, _ George went to say, but the words felt stuck in his throat, so he stretched, this time more successfully, and fixed Dream with a pitiful look he couldn’t even see in the darkness. “I’m  _ stiff,” _ he said, plaintively, and Dream chuckled. The sound set George at ease. He’d never been the biggest fan of the dark, but having Dream here made things better.

“That’s what you get for falling asleep on the couch, you idiot,” he replied affectionately, “look, come lie down properly beside me - there’s plenty of space. You’ll be more comfy that way.”

George scoffed, just to hide the way his heart skipped a beat and his cheeks grew warm. “You just want me to sleep beside you,” he accused, voice quiet to avoid waking Sapnap, “creep.”

It may have been dark, but Dream’s smile was visible, even if it was impossible to see in the darkness. “Just come here, George,” he grinned, and George happily shuffled towards him, leaning close enough that he could feel Dream’s breath tickle the top of his head, blowing his hair very lightly. They’d slept like this so many times before, and even when they hadn’t been sleeping, found themselves in this position too often for both of them not to like it - George instantly felt peaceful and sleepy again, the last remnants from the nightmare dissipating in his mind.

“There,” Dream murmured, “now go back to sleep, dork. It’s late.”

“You weren’t sleeping?” George asked, yawning. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling above them; Dream had painted it with little stars before the war, accurately drawing out the constellations and night sky above them, and George never tired of looking at it. He felt Dream shake his head, briefly, hesitantly, and felt his own heart sink.

“Why?”

“You won’t get it.” 

George felt mildly stung. “Try me,” he said lightly.

“...Philza isn’t here yet.”

He blinked, struggling through thoughts for a moment. “I didn’t know you invited Phil,” he tried, instead of admitting that yes, Dream was right, he had no idea why that was so troubling, “do you think he’s in trouble or something?”

“I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.” Dream huffed a laugh, soft and uneasy and vulnerable. George knew how much his best friend loved the dark, loved how easy it was to be just a little bit more human when he was completely blanketed in the black ink of night. For George, the blanket was suffocating, cold and isolating - the rise and fall of Dream’s chest against his back helped keep that at bay. “I just- wanted to talk to him about something. I wish he was here. Wilbur says he hasn’t logged on yet. I just hope he will soon.”

“He will,” George assured him, clumsy in his comfort, which was never his strongest suit, but Dream didn’t seem to mind, wrapping an arm around him contentedly with a huff of breath, “but you not sleeping isn’t going to hurry that up, you know. You’re only going to exhaust yourself eventually.”

He paused, twisted round to face Dream in the darkness. The hand around his waist let him, loose and warm. Hands cupping the mask on his best friend’s face, George hesitated. 

“Can I?”

Dream had never denied him before. Swallowing, he nodded.

“Always.”

With gentle hands, George pulled the mask from Dream’s face, loosening the strings and setting it to the side and losing it in the darkness.

His eyes had adjusted somewhat, so he was able, to his delight, to make out the green of Dream’s eyes, vaguely see the freckles on his face, trace the scar that rippled down his cheekbone through his eye. His heart soared. “There you are,” he said, voice catching on some hidden feeling.

Dream’s smile was all pearly teeth and uncertain softness. “I never left, George.”

_ You did, _ George thought, but contented himself with sighing, memorising the sight of his friend’s face before morning came and made Dream put his mask back on. “You’ll be able to sleep better without that stupid thing on, anyway,” he continued, like Dream hadn’t spoken. “Isn’t it too warm?”

“Mmm.” Dream already sounded a lot more relaxed, sleep roughening his words just ever so slightly. “You get used to it.”

“You could stop wearing it so much,” George suggested, words barely audible, and Dream’s breathing hitched against his chest, “even just around the Community House.”

Dream hummed without speaking for a second, and George took that as his chance to turn around again, burying himself deeper into the couch and into Dream’s arms. As much as he often bemoaned Dream’s height in comparison to his own, there was something very comforting about it now - like it was supposed to be, like Dream was that tall for the sole reason of being the perfect height to embrace George. He’d never admit it aloud, but in the middle of the night, nothing needed to be said. 

“I’ll try to sleep,” Dream said softly, after a moment or two, “no promises though.”

“No promises needed, idiot,” George replied, hardly daring to believe it, “you can thank me tomorrow when you’re less tired and more well rested by professing your undying devotion to me.”

Dream’s wheeze was light and muted, but there nonetheless. “You’re so stupid, I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Yeah.” George could hear the smile in Dream’s voice. “I do.”

And as he listened sleepily to his best friend’s breathing even out as he fell into sleep, and felt himself beginning to drift off, George trained his eyes sleepily on the stars, and felt for the first time since the war that he was finally, finally home.

It was 4:12am when George drifted off, and 4:13am when the break-in occurred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there we have it!! some tooth-rotting fluff for the boys before things go wrong >:) if you enjoyed, pls leave kudos and/or a comment if you'd like!! they really motivate me to keep writing and always make me smile, so if you wanna, go ahead and do so!!
> 
> this IS going to have dreamnotfound in it - it won't be a MAJOR part of the plot, but it will feature sort of heavily, so if that's not your cup of tea, i recommend you don't read!! :)
> 
> love you all and thanks for reading !! see you in chapter four :D


	4. operation m for mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dirty Crime Boys launch their plan to steal Dream's mask for their séance. Things go too smoothly.
> 
> Tommy decides he doesn't like Dream's mask one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter, welcome back!! this is actually so fun to write kbfksd, so here's another chapter while i'm waiting for karl's stream - which is at 1am my time, someone help me :') i find tommy's perspective so much easier to write than george's for some reason, so george's chapters might take longer than tommy's, just a warning!! i also have a LOT of uni work to get through, so daily updates aren't very likely in the future skdfbsdf
> 
> EXPLANATIONS: skeppy is NOT dead in the real dream smp canon, just in this!! callahan and alyssa are also Not Dead in canon, just wanted to clarify!! fundy/dream is also not going to become with canon because in this, fundy is only slightly older than tommy and tubbo, and because george/dream is canon, so fundy is only mildly infatuated with how Pretty dream is dskskbkd.
> 
> i hope you all enjoy!! not many trigger warnings for this chapter at all!
> 
> TWS - general creepy ambience, horror themes, possession talk, canon typical swearing + brief violence

Operation M was a go.

Tubbo had given it that name after Tommy had discussed his plan with the other Crime Boys - “ _like M for Mask!_ ”, he’d said cheerfully - and Tommy had to admit, it was a perfect name. He liked a plan with a cool name and a cooler outcome. It was simple enough - break into the Community House while everyone was sleeping, steal Dream’s mask, get back out.

It was foolproof. And, as Fundy had very helpfully pointed out, it wasn’t even stealing technically; they had every intention to return it after they conducted their séance that night. Dream probably wouldn’t even notice it was gone.

“And if he does,” Wilbur said before they left, pushing his glasses up his nose, “I know for a fact Dream has more than one mask. He’ll survive.”

So Operation M was afoot, and Tommy was delighted to lead it. He’d chosen Fundy to accompany him on the heist, who was surprisingly nimble and quick on his feet, as well as an expert liar, which they would need if they were caught. He didn’t even want to begin to imagine Dream’s reaction if he admitted what he was doing. It really didn’t bear thinking about, and, huddling crouched in a tree with Fundy and watching Dream and George cuddle on the couch, it was the last thing Tommy was thinking about.

“Are they asleep?” He whispered to Fundy, shivering. He wished he’d brought a jacket.

Fundy frowned in through the window, squinting slightly. “Not yet,” he reported quietly, “they’re just- cuddling. And talking. Sapnap isn’t awake, but Dream and George still are.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Tommy groaned, flopping backwards in the tree to dramatically stare at the stars. “They’re just so ridiculous. I get they’re dating, but this is all a bit much, and terribly inconvenient for us-”

“They’re not dating.”

Tommy paused. _“Huh?”_

“I said,” Fundy said, sounding wearily amused, “they’re not dating. They’re just sort of in denial about everything between them. Though it is ridiculous, you’re right.”

Pulling out his telescope - a birthday present from Phil years ago, that had only just come in handy with the creation of this plan - Tommy squinted through it into the Community House. George had turned towards Dream now, propping himself up with his arms on Dream’s chest and Dream’s arm slung loosely around his waist. His mask was still firmly on. What did Dream look like underneath it? He wondered. He supposed he’d get his answer sooner rather than later - at least, he would if they both stopped flirting. 

“You’re joking,” he said flatly, “they’re literally gazing into each other’s eyes. Well. Eyes to mask.”

“I know.” Fundy shifted beside him, tail curling around his legs for warmth. It was a cold, cold night. “Dad and I have a bet on-”

“Don’t call him Dad, please, that’s my brother, that’s just so weird-”

“Tommy, he is literally my dad, I don’t want to call him Wilbur-”

“Fundy, please, I’m too young to think of Wilbur as a father, that’s awful-”

“ _Dad and I_ have a bet,” Fundy repeated, slightly louder and more insistent, “that if Dream and George don’t get together before this year is out, he gets one hundred dollars. If they do, I get it. I’m just praying they kiss right now so I can take a picture and show him. I’m broke.”

“How are you always broke?” Tommy scoffed. “You scammed Tubbo out of twenty quid yesterday.”

“Twenty pounds is nothing in the long term,” Fundy sighed, dejectedly, “that’s how the world works.”

“Ah,” Tommy said wisely, “capitalism and shit.”

“Capitalism _is_ shit, I think you mean-”

Tommy stopped paying attention, pulling back startled at what he was seeing. “Fundy,” he hissed, “the mask.”

Fundy stiffened. “What, what about it?”

George was cupping the mask in his hands, an odd expression on his face - Tommy watched him murmur something to Dream, who replied back, and then held his breath in suspense as George pulled the mask off his face. Fundy exhaled beside him. Tommy knew his friend well enough to know the exact look that would be on his face; eyes wide, lips slightly parted, cheeks flushed.

“Oh no,” Fundy said, horrified, “he’s pretty.”

Dream was not pretty. He was punchable, at least to Tommy, who saw his face and instantly felt the urge to fight him rise. His face was scarred and surprisingly tanned, despite seemingly never venturing outside without his mask on - he’d hoped for an embarrassing tan line or something he could have mocked him for, but instead Dream just looked… human. Annoyingly so. Tommy had been expecting something surprising behind the mask - lizard eyes or a silly tattoo or anything inhuman, but all he could make out was Dream’s youth and the prominent dark circles under his eyes mingling with his freckles.

“You’re a mess,” he told Fundy, pulling back from the telescope to see Fundy staring at Dream looking awestruck through the window, “I should’ve brought Tubbo.”

“Mm,” Fundy agreed, lost in the view, “yeah.”

Tommy shook him very firmly. “Dream is the villain,” he said sternly, “we are the heroes. Our job is not to fall for the villains, it is to stab the shit out of them.”

“We’re not stabbing Dream!”

Not yet, Tommy thought darkly. “We _are_ stealing his mask, though. Get your head in the game, man. Don’t look if you really think he’s attractive. Focus on the mission! Operation M for Mask!”

“M for Mask.” Fundy sighed, turning to Tommy properly and looking apologetic. “You’re right, I got carried away. At least this means the mask will be easier to grab. I didn’t like the thought of taking it off his face.”

That would have been weird. Instead of answering, Tommy grunted, focusing back on their target. George had turned back around now, both of them grinning about something Tommy had missed and wouldn’t have been able to hear anyway. They both looked tired - he knew it wouldn’t be long before they fell asleep. When that happened…

“Let’s start moving,” he told Fundy, when Dream’s eyes drifted shut, “quick. We have to do this fast, you know. The quicker we steal the mask-”

_“Borrow.”_

“...The quicker we _borrow_ the mask, the better.” Tommy shoved Fundy, jumping out of the tree and wincing at the half a heart damage. It would heal quickly enough, though, and he gestured at his companion to follow suit. “Come on! Dream will be asleep by now.”

Fundy climbed down the tree instead of jumping, elegant and swift, and before long, the two of them were creeping towards the Community House, on the lookout for any monsters. For once, Tommy had to thank Dream - he could have made this world impossibly difficult, could have raised the difficulty of the world to the max like Phil had told them some world owners did, could have made their lives at night a lot harder. But Dream, perhaps in his first and last act of kindness and good will, had made the world easy enough. There were still monsters, but they were docile enough during the day and simple enough to defeat at night. As such, they only encountered two - a skeleton and a spider - that they dealt with easily.

“No Creepers,” Fundy breathed, relieved, “thank God for that.”

An explosion was the last thing they needed, after all. They reached the gates of the Community House, entering silently and moving quickly. Tommy’s heart raced in anticipation - this was it. They were really about to steal from Dream. Maybe, he thought, just maybe, after this was over, he could barter with Dream - his mask for his discs. Because no matter what uneasy state of peace there was between their nations, Dream was still his enemy, and always would be, unless he decided to give his discs back voluntarily with a formal apology for taking them in the first place. Dream’s mask was so precious to him - maybe he’d be willing to trade if Tommy threatened to burn it. The mask for his discs…

Fundy nudged him out of his thoughts, sneaking towards the door. “This way,” he whispered, but Tommy had not come all this way to use the door.

“It’s probably locked. Come this way, Fundy.”

And when Fundy turned to reply, Tommy broke the window and dived through, axe in hand and ready to kill anyone who came against him. 

Silence, other than Fundy, who had slipped through the front door and was shaking him in annoyance. “The door was literally open!” He hissed. “You might have jeopardized our whole mission now! Why are you like this?”

Tommy, scraped and on two hearts of damage, smiled breezily at Fundy, adrenaline pumping. “Come on, don’t be like that, don’t turn against me now!” He covered his mouth to hold back a wild laugh. “Let’s get this stupid mask. God, I was so cool.”

Fundy groaned in despair, but followed him nonetheless, both of them tiptoeing upstairs to where Sapnap, George and Dream lay sleeping. Tommy paused at the top of the stairs, briefly uncertain. Something about this felt… off. Wrong. The air was still, expectant. The whole world seemed to hang in balance. Something felt very, very uncomfortable. Besides him, Fundy twitched - he clearly sensed the same thing. The two of them exchanged glances, uncertain and suddenly very tense.

Could this be a trap? Tommy wondered. He tried to think back to the tree, furrowing his brow to recall if anything about Dream and George’s behavior had seemed fake or like they knew they were there. But it had all felt so real, so private - fuck, Tommy had almost felt bad about watching it, that was how intimate it had been. Surely Dream wouldn’t have revealed his face either, even if he was trying to trap them, even if he knew they were coming, which he couldn’t, anyway. None of the Dirty Crime Boys would have told him, and Tommy had made them promise not to tell anyone else either.

No. No, it was probably just the nerves getting to him. Steeling himself, taking a silent breath, Tommy slowly crept closer, axe in hand just in case and slowly reaching towards the mask. It glowed at him, dull white glow coupled with the moon giving him enough light to see where he was going and where he was stepping. Fundy waited behind anxiously at the stairs. Every step Tommy took felt impossibly loud and impossibly clumsy - he was suddenly reminded of a fleeting childhood memory, of trying to sneak out past bedtime to watch Philza train with his friend Technoblade. Phil had always managed to catch him by listening for the creak in a floorboard or the tread of a footstep - once he’d catch him, he’d sit him on his shoulders with a playful lecture and whisk him straight back to bed. What would Dream do if he woke up?

Not playfully give him into trouble, that was for sure. 

Tommy swallowed, reaching out for the mask-

-And then it was in his hands, warm and _pulsing_ under his fingers. Startled, Tommy jerked back, knocking into the couch. 

George stirred, all long limbs and sleepy confusion.

Fundy pulled Tommy towards the stairs, silent on his feet, with one hand over Tommy’s mouth. Tommy didn’t complain - he was spooked, and wanted to be back home more than anything at that moment. The mask felt _alive_ in his hands, buzzing with static electricity and something more, something ancient-

“Were you trying to get us killed in there?!” Fundy snapped when they were outside, voice shaking just ever so slightly. There was no amusement in his tone for once, no mischief; just anger, and an undercurrent of fear. “You knocked right against them both, you made such a noise!”

Tommy thrust the mask into Fundy’s hands, wiping his own hands roughly on his jeans to try and rid them of the buzzing electricity feeling. “Look!” He hissed, not liking Fundy’s blame. “Look, you can’t fucking blame me - it just fizzed in my hands, Fundy, like it was electric or some shit! It freaked me out! I wasn’t expecting it to do that!”

“It’s probably made using electricity,” Fundy replied with an eye roll, handing it back, “and you probably knocked a wire loose or something. It’s not glowing anymore either, see? You might have broken it.”

With a sinking heart, Tommy took the mask back, frowning at it. Indeed, there was no glow, and the odd tingling feeling emanating from it seemed to have entirely disappeared too. Oh no, he thought morosely, I’m going senile. This is my senile character arc. I’m losing my mind.

“Let’s just head back to base,” he muttered, scowling, and fastening the mask securely around his face. It was just a little too big for him, but he couldn’t see at all out of it - how did Dream move around in this? He pulled it off, mildly irate at how the whole night had gone. “Let’s get this séance over with, and go to bed. You’re no fun when you’re tired.”

“I’m not tired! You’re the one scared of a mask-”

“I am not scared of it, dickhead, I’m-”

He and Fundy bickered rather heatedly the whole time back home. Tommy wouldn’t admit to it, but there was something very relaxing about doing so - the familiarity dispersed the uneasy feelings he’d had before, and by the time they knocked open the door to the house and barreled inside, the mask’s strangeness had completely fled from Tommy’s mind.

“Oh, Tubbo!” He called out. “We’re back! With stolen goods! We’re basically criminals now!”

“...He shouts, at the top of his lungs,” Fundy deadpanned, looking ruffled, “you would be the worst criminal.”

Tommy nudged him with an eye roll, but there was a grin on his face. “Shut up. I just conducted the most daring heist ever seen in this SMP. You should be complimenting me, not being all smart.” Before Fundy had the chance to reply, Tommy pushed further into the house, frowning at the dead silence of it all. “Tubbo? You’re not asleep, are you?”

Silence. Only the hum of night and the _tick-tick-tick_ of the clock on the wall. Tommy’s unease rose to new heights. Fundy looked just as on-edge, as they tersely began checking in every room for their friend. Tubbo wasn’t in any of the bedrooms sleeping, he wasn’t in the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom, their planning room.

That left the basement.

Tommy and Fundy exchanged a silent glance. The clock had stopped ticking. The mask in his hands was warm to the touch. 

Fundy pushed open the door, and they made the descent downwards.

Tubbo was sitting in the center of the room, eyes closed and looking entirely at peace. The floor was littered with tarot cards and scribbled pieces of paper - in front of Tubbo, there were candles, all of them extinguished except the center one, which burned brighter than ever. A chill ran down Tommy’s spine, and he wanted to run.

“Tubbo?” He said, uncertainly.

Tubbo’s eyes sprang open, locking directly on the two boys in the doorway. His face lit up. “Gentlemen,” he said solemnly, in an odd sort of American accent, “you’ve come to the right place.”

“Well, evidently,” Fundy said, nervously, “because we were looking for you, and you’re right here.”

“What’s with the accent?” Tommy pressed, crossing his arms and stifling his worries, because Tubbo wasn't possessed, he was fine, he was fine... “Are you going all American again? I hate it when you do this.”

“I am Big Demonslayer, Lord of Demonslayers,” Tubbo said, seriously, “you can call me Big D.”

“...I am not calling you Big D, Tubbo,” Tommy replied, all the tension draining from his body instantly, “you dickhead, I thought you were possessed or something.”

“You actually thought I was possessed?” Tubbo abandoned his act upon seeing the genuine relief lining Fundy and Tommy’s expressions, standing up with a laugh. “Surely not, surely not. Look, I’m fine, I promise! I was just messing with you both. How did it go? I didn’t get a message about you both dying, and I don’t hear Dream crashing through the door to get the mask back, so I’m guessing it went good.”

Tommy flashed the mask at Tubbo with a smirk, recovering quickly now that he knew his best friend was safe and sound. “Operation M was successful, my friend,” he said smugly, “and it was all thanks to me.”

Fundy spluttered indignantly. “That’s just not true!”

“So, it’s séance time!” Tommy sat down on the floor, looking expectantly at Tubbo. “What do we do? We left you in charge of research.”

“Well,” Tubbo said reasonably, “I can’t read very well, Tommy, so I don’t have a fucking clue. But! We can’t do the seance tonight anyway. According to Wilbur, they work best on the night of the full moon. Which isn’t for three days.”

“Oh, great.” Fundy looked dismayed. “We were supposed to return the mask tonight or tomorrow. What are we supposed to do with it now? We can’t keep it for three days. He’ll definitely notice then. Can’t we just do it now? We don’t need _that_ much power, right?”

Tommy waved him off, ignoring his disappointment and standing up instead, clapping Tubbo on the back. “It’s best that we wait, I think. We are trying to talk with the dead to figure out why people are disappearing and dying: that’s not fucking easy. It’s just a few days. Like Wilbur said yesterday, the green bastard probably has loads of them in case he loses one. It’s going to be fine, as long as we don’t start panicking and doing stupid shit.” He looked pointedly at Fundy, who took offence.

“What am _I_ going to do?!”

Tommy ignored him, yawning and switching off the light to the basement as they headed upstairs to bed. “Listen, Tubbo, have I got a story for you! We singlehandedly stole this mask from Dream right under his nose, _and_ we got to see his face! We barely got out with our lives!”

“They were all asleep,” Fundy said pointedly, even as Tubbo grew wide eyed, “they were asleep, and the mask was literally lying on a table. It wasn’t that-”

“So,” Tommy began with relish, launching into his story, “it all started when a creeper almost blew us up.”

Fundy rolled his eyes.

  
  


Outside, bad weather brewed over the world, rain lashing down while thunderclouds rolled over the sky. Lightning was inevitable; the boys inside were entirely oblivious to the commotion. 

The mask stopped glowing.

A storm was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and with that ominous end after the vaguely comical chapter, i leave you!! thank you all for reading, i really hope you enjoyed - please leave a kudos and/or comment if you did!! it keeps me motivated and encouraged to keep writing :))
> 
> there was a looooot of foreshadowing to future events in this chapter too ;) i love foreshadowing: don't be surprised if it's in literally every chapter sdkjbvld
> 
> next up is when we start delving a little further into the plot: what is the mask to dream? why does he care about it so much? and what is he going to do now that it's gone? all questions will be touched upon in the next chapter, so stay tuned for that!!
> 
> thank you so much for reading, big love to you all! <3


	5. static sounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream is lost in the static, until he's not.
> 
> The Dream Team is falling apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back to another chapter !! i found this one H a r d to write but i think it turned out okay !! :D
> 
> trigger warnings - eerieness, arguing, flashbacks.
> 
> enjoy the chapter!!! :))

Dream’s mask was missing, and nobody seemed alright about it, other than George.

Obviously he was  _ unhappy  _ Dream’s mask was missing, especially knowing it had been stolen from him while they’d both been sleeping - a particularly quick and dramatic break in, judging by the broken window and the fact George distinctly remembered waking up in the night to something - someone - knocking against him, but worse things had happened, right? Dream had plenty of replacements in his room, and none of them had been hurt.

...None of the other Community House members seemed to think so. Bad had looked incredibly distraught upon Dream telling them, and hadn’t been seen for the rest of the day. When George passed his room, it was silent - frightening, considering usually Bad would be talking animatedly to Skeppy and he’d never seen his room door closed before. The demon always left it open: “So if anyone needs me, they know I’m always here to talk,” Bad had explained months ago after Dream had asked, face cheery. 

Bad might have been there for him, but nobody seemed to be there for him to reassure him from whatever slump he’d fallen in; Sapnap stuck to Dream’s side like a lost puppy, not even budging from his side at night where he hovered over him without sleeping; George had no idea what was going on or where to even start fixing this; and Dream... 

George frowned. Dream hadn’t been himself since yesterday when they’d woken up to discover the mask was gone. Upon hunting for it and failing to find it, his friend had put another on, this one a shade darker than the light grey of his other mask, and had been eerily silent on the whole thing. He’d like to say Dream just didn’t care, but maybe that was the problem - Dream cared about  _ everything. _ It was his best and worst quality. Dream cared so painfully much about everyone and everything, was usually so full of life and energy, so to see him curiously blank now, to see him so dismissive and silent over his mask and over his friends being miserable, was very unsettling indeed.

Getting home from messing around with Quackity and Karl, who had alleviated his tensions from worrying about the other members of the Dream Team - everyone knew about Dream’s mask being missing by now, especially after the tense messages Dream had sent over the communicator demanding his mask back and receiving nothing in return - George glanced automatically to the left at the shattered window they’d yet to repair. The Community House was so much colder with it broken; a draught blew around the rooms constantly - so much inconvenience, for one cracked window.

Of course, everyone’s first suspect was Tommy. Dream himself had been reticent on the topic, but Sapnap had gotten into a rather heated argument with Tommy over the mask when the kid had shown up asking what happened to the window - George hadn’t bothered to diffuse it. Sapnap had very clearly needed to vent his frustrations and anger, and shouting at Tommy - the most infuriating person on the server - was perhaps one of the least harmful ways of expressing his feelings. Even Bad had privately asked Tommy to hand the mask back, to which, according to popular rumour, Tommy had said something mean and promptly ran away. The more people that asked, the more defensive and rude Tommy seemed to get, but George couldn’t possibly imagine why Tommy would have taken the mask. It didn’t make any sense. Everyone knew Dream had spares - everyone saw him the next day with a spare mask, lips pressed together, silently walking through L’Manburg back to the Community House. So why would Tommy take a mask that had no personal value to him, and served no purpose other than to piss Dream off?

It made no sense, George mused. Then again, Tommy was petty enough just to take it to annoy Dream. He was probably delighted at how much upset the missing mask had caused.

Pushing open the door, George’s declaration that he was home died on his lips. 

The room was a mess; things destroyed, furniture overturned, objects on the ground. George pulled out his sword and donned his armour before he even thought about it - whatever had done this wasn’t friendly. Maybe it wasn’t even human. Monsters had gotten into the Community House before. It wouldn’t be entirely a surprise if they got in again, especially with Dream’s current mood. The world and its natural inhabitants - that included everything not generated in by other members of the world, and other members of the world themselves - were entirely influenced by the world owner’s mood, and George had eyed the dark clouds in the sky in the past day or so with growing concern, but had tried to push it aside. However, if mobs had spawned in the Community House…

“Dream?” He called out, voice echoing round the Community House emptily. “Where are you?”

Because he knew Dream was here. He could hear some sort of noise from his best friend’s room: something that crawled under his skin and sat wrong inside him. Sword clenched tight in a white-knuckled grip, George slowly began moving towards his room when he got no answer, more awake than ever. Pausing outside his door, George pressed his ear to the wood to listen intently. Static. That was what he could hear. Static, loud and grating, white noise flooding Dream’s room and the Community House. 

For a second, he hesitated. Should he disturb Dream? What if Dream was working on something? He always got annoyed when people interrupted him when he was editing parts of the world — ever the perfectionist, he didn’t like people seeing him edit things. George wasn’t the exception to this. Maybe he should just ignore it. Dream would talk to him when he was ready, wouldn’t he? 

He wanted to sleep. Things in dreams were so much easier than this. 

But Dream wasn’t okay. George steeled himself, and pushed open the door, not stepping any further forwards. 

He was immediately glad he’d chosen to investigate.

Dream stood in the centre of the room, his back to George, facing the small radio in his room. The source of the static, George realised, the noise louder than ever and making it twice as hard to think. There was a blinding light from above; shielding his eyes to squint up at it, he saw Dream’s bedroom light shining down on them like a spotlight. Hadn’t that bulb been broken for weeks and weeks?

“Dream?” He called out, uneasiness skittering down his back. “Dream! What’s going on!”

Dream didn’t hear him or didn’t care enough to answer. He didn’t even flinch, staring transfixed at the radio without moving a muscle. It was eerie, seeing him so still - usually Dream could never stand still, always fidgeting or moving around to let his body match his mind, and seeing him frozen in place was frightening. 

There was something in the static too, George noticed, a strange, low pitched hum that he didn’t recognise as static. It made his hair stand on end, made him want to retreat out of the room and leave Dream in whatever trance-like state he’d found him i, or worse- join Dream in gazing captivated at the radio, immerse himself like his best friend in the soundwaves and lose himself to the static. George resisted both, with effort, stepping further into the room.

The static stopped, instantly, and the light disappeared. In the darkness of the room, in the reflection of the mirror, George watched Dream blink, and then blink again. He seemed startled, hand lifting to his face, scrabbling for his mask that wasn’t there, only to let it drop, feelings fleeting over his face. For a moment, George made eye contact with him in the mirror, Dream’s gaze startled, frightened, vulnerable; George’s, something he didn’t dare dwell on.

“Where is it?” Dream asked, voice hoarse.

George stepped closer. Dream stiffened almost imperceptibly. 

“Not here, Dream,” George said quietly, “remember? It’s missing.”

His friend didn’t seem satisfied by this, turning around to face him, eyes distant, curiously so. It was the same expression he got when he forgot he wasn’t wearing his mask; the closed off expression that he’d fallen back on so often after the war, and was only just getting better at stopping. It stung to see it now. “George, I need it.”

“Well, you have others.” George turned around to where Dream kept his masks, and froze. 

...Had the masks always been on display like that, hung on the wall and smiling down at him? Had they always looked so cold and malicious? He blinked, forcing himself to ignore the oddness and pulling one of them down, half tightening his grip on his sword in the expectation for something to happen. 

Nothing did. Exhaling, George held it out for Dream to take, and when he just stared at him without comprehension, he put the mask over his friend’s face himself, gently pushing aside Dream’s hair and tying the strings around his head. Dream didn’t protest, didn’t speak, didn’t move. He stayed very still, even after George had pulled away and had fixed him with a hopeful tired smile. “Is that okay?”

“...Where is it?”

George was really beginning to panic now. Was this some sort of flashback Dream was locked in? He was no stranger to them; they’d been in a war, for God’s sake, he wasn’t stupid enough to pretend there had been no negative effects on their mental health after that, but…This felt like something deeper. Maybe it had something to do with the mask. Had Dream ever lost it before? “It’s alright,” he said, at a loss for what to do or say to make things better, “we’ll get it back. We’ll find it again. I’m sure-”

“Skeppy.” George froze as Dream finally turned towards him, grabbing his shoulders. Dream’s hands were almost painfully cold, freezing through George's t-shirt. “Please, I need it. Please. Give it back. Give it  _ back.” _

“Dream?” Sapnap said from the doorway, and George pushed Dream off him, heart racing in his ears and taking steps back. Turning to look, he felt no small amount of relief at seeing Sapnap there; axe in hand, quickly replaced with nothing as he stowed his weapon away in favour of stepping further into the room. “Dream, can you hear me?”

Dream twisted, staring at Sapnap behind the mask. His expression, though partially shielded, was wild. “Sap?”

“Hey, man.” Sapnap tried for a smile. “What’s the time? Can you tell for me? Focus.”

For a moment, there was nothing. Sapnap wavered in the doorway, going for his axe, or maybe something else. George held his breath, feeling more like a spectator in the audience than ever before. The radio buzzed for a second, numbers flickering over the screen, a 1 and a 4 and another number too, all of them moving too quickly to make out.

Dream pulled out his communicator, staring at it like he’d never seen it before.

“6pm,” he said softly, “6:02.”

Sapnap couldn’t have looked more relieved if he’d tried. “Yeah, man, 6:02,” he said encouragingly, “how’re you feeling? Alright?”

Dream pulled off his mask, staring at it with a frown for a second. “Better,” he replied, not meeting either of their eyes, “sorry, heh. I wasn’t…”

He trailed off, quiet and lost in thought. Sapnap glanced to George, who got the message, beginning to move towards the exit. While he did so, Dream put the mask in his hands back with the rest of them in his drawer, gnawing on his lip.

“Do you want us to stay?” George asked when the silence grew awkward.

Dream finally lifted his head, turning towards both of them. He suddenly seemed a lot smaller and a lot more fragile standing there by himself, but he smiled lightly, seemingly shaking off his previous mood. “No,” he said, and Sapnap pressed his lips together, “no, it’s okay. Sorry. I think I just need some rest, that’s all. I feel exhausted.”

“If you need us, call.” Sapnap’s voice was firm. “Promise?”

“I promise, I promise.” Dream’s expression grew fonder, more relaxed. “You’re both too sweet. I’m okay now. Wake me up for dinner?”

They both agreed, but George’s mind was elsewhere as they left, Sapnap closing Dream’s door behind him with a click. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but one thing stood out to him, perhaps selfishly - he’d never felt more separated from his best friends as he did now. There were so many secrets being kept from him, and he was only just beginning to see that,

“What happened?” He asked Sapnap when they got downstairs, far enough away that Dream wouldn’t hear it. “What was that?”

Sapnap had the guts to shrug, faking nonchalance. “I got no idea. It was pretty freaky though. He definitely needs to sleep more, did you see the bags under his eyes? Guy’s gonna end up looking sixty and he’s only twenty one, pft.”

“You don’t know?” George tried to ignore his rising irritation. “Well, you know something, Sapanp. You managed to calm him down just there. How did you know to do that? Surely it must have happened before, then.”

His friend looked vaguely guilty, pausing in his pacing and clearing his throat. “Look, it’s not that big a deal-”

“Dream had a breakdown in his bedroom and only you snapped him out of it.” George crossed his arms, not buying it for a second. “Tell me the truth, please.”

“...You can’t tell him I told you.”

“I won’t, I promise. I wouldn’t.”

“Phil taught me it.” Sapnap glanced away guiltily, over to the shattered window. “He was Dream’s therapist for a bit, a few years ago. He taught Dream that trick and Dream taught me and Bad. You won’t remember, I don’t think.”

No, George didn’t remember that at all. He must not have joined the SMP yet; though the news Phil had, at one point, been on the SMP before this point, was surprising. He frowned in thought. “Dream was in therapy?”

“Well, as close to therapy as you can get, minus the health bills,” Sapnap said lightheartedly, “and Phil isn’t exactly a therapist. He just… listened, and gave the advice Dream needed.”

“...What for?”

Sapnap shrugged helplessly, and this time, he didn’t look like he was hiding anything. “I don’t know, man. I didn’t want to ask. I thought whatever it was, he’d recovered from it. But now…”

He exhaled. George rubbed at his eyes, mind refusing to comprehend anything further than the information he’d been given. But now, indeed. If Sapnap thought Dream had recovered, then what had triggered this lapse in recovery? Losing his mask? Stress from the war? Stress from world building? Something else entirely?

“I’m going to nap too, I think.” George said, watching Sapnap frown and open his mouth to voice his concern. “Wake me up for dinner too, will you? Or if Dream…”

Sapnap gazed at him in silence for a moment, and George knew what he was thinking.  _ Don’t shut the world out, George, _ Sapnap’s expression said,  _ don’t fall back into bad habits. I can’t do this alone. _ But all he said was, “sure thing, Georgie. I will.”

George nodded thankfully at him, heading for the door. He paused, though, turning back to face his best friend, anxiety coiling in his stomach.

“Sap, did you hear what Dream called me?” He asked, half tentatively. “Right before you came in?”

Sapnap turned to face him, alarm in his gaze. “What did he call you?”

“He…” George touched his face, half wishing he had a mask on to shield his emotions right now. “He called me Skeppy, Sap.”

Sapnap was silent for a long, long time. Too long.

“Sleep well, George,” he said eventually, voice tired, “I’ll wake you for dinner, hah.”

George felt something change between them, something twist. If Sapnap was going to keep things from him, then fine. Fine. He didn’t care. He’d work things out himself.

“Don’t bother,” he replied, before walking out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this made me sad to write but i loved it at the same time >:) if you enjoyed then leave a like and comment !! they all really motivate me :)
> 
> tommy's chapter up next!! his chapters are much easier to write than george's, and i'm excited to write the next one :DD 
> 
> for now, thank you so much for reading and i'll see y'all in the next chapter!!


	6. the angel of death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil arrives on the server. Tommy makes devious plans. The séance approaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back!! i hope you enjoy this chapter - tommy's chapters are so much EASIER to write than george's lol, so i had a lot of fun with this!! not so much angst in this, just a lot of family fluff :]
> 
> EXPLANATION - canon lives are very random. someone can die one thousand times and only lose one 'canon' life, or someone could die three times and instantly lose all their 'canon' lives. it's a random chance that your lives are affected during death, and is usually affected when a death occurs during an event. nobody really knows what happens after someone dies for good on a server. it varies for each person and server.
> 
> i hope that makes sense!! if there's anything else that's unclear pls let me knows haha 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THE CHAPTER - blood mention, lava, nightmares/bad dreams, body horror, possession mentions/implications, sort of suicide baiting (in a nightmare)??, mention of PTSD, temporary character death, plot-typical violence & swearing!
> 
> stay safe, and enjoy the chapter!

Tommy was being chased.

Chest roaring with pain, stomach in knots, he looked around desperately for a way to escape, breaths coming in short, sharp bursts. He needed to get out. God, he needed to get  _ out.  _ He had no idea what he was doing, had no idea where he was - obsidian towers loomed left and right, mocking him, and flames licked at his heels whenever he slowed, urging him to run faster and faster until he thought he was going to vomit from how exhausted he was.

But he couldn’t let it get him. Because then it would be  _ game over. _ And Tommy Innit was not a fucking loser.

It, whatever  _ it _ was, wasn’t just chasing him. He realized that now, after spending God knew how long running. It was hunting him, stalking him like a predator would its prey, waiting for the moment when he ran out of places to run or the moment when he was too tired to escape. And then it would get him. It would turn him into one of them. Staggering for a moment, tripping over a loose rock on the ground, Tommy did his best to rationalize this, pulling the collar of his t-shirt over his nose and mouth to breathe air that wasn’t agony. How could he know this? How did he know this thing was so bad? Why was he being chased?

A laugh from behind him had Tommy moving quicker than ever, darting over rocks that tore at the skin of his feet and trying to breathe in air that scorched his lungs, Tommy came to a halt at a ledge that led to nothing but darkness and lava. It bubbled underneath him, thousands of blocks below him.

_ Tommy, _ it called to him, _ jump. What’s the worst that could happen? _

“I’m not going to fucking jump,” he whispered, voice hoarse and muffled, “I’m not out of my fucking-”

…Why was his voice muffled?

“Tommy,” someone, some _ thing _ behind him called, “jump. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Tommy stepped back, away from the lava. His hands came to his face, trying to-

To-

Rough hands caught him from behind, pulled him back from the edge.

Tommy’s hands met the smooth cold porcelain of a glowing mask.

He cried out in horror.

_ Surely not. _

“Let me see your face,” the thing behind him said, hissed, spat, “don’t hide from me, Tommy. Let me see.”

Tommy struggled tooth and nail to get out of its arms, scratching and clawing and fighting. It didn’t relent - panic, all encompassing and frightening, rose up like an ocean inside of him. No. No, this couldn’t be how he died. He couldn’t die like this, alone and scared and  _ confused. _ He didn’t have his discs back. He hadn’t solved the mystery. He hadn’t said goodbye. This couldn’t be how his story ended. “Get off me!!”

The thing laughed in his ear, cruel and scorching hot. It blistered his face, and Tommy cried out in pain. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” it offered and, spinning him around, still with a tight grip on his collar, turned him to face it.

Except it didn’t _have_ a face. Its head was there, with familiar hair and a familiar frame and a familiar hoodie. But when Tommy looked, there was no face. Just a gaping void, empty and dark and uninhabited.  _ Abandoned.  _ That was the only way to describe it. Its face was abandoned. Tommy staggered back, barely able to comprehend what he was looking at. No.  _ No, _ he’d seen his face before, he knew this couldn’t be what it really looked like. There was no way-

“Give me my mask,” the Dream with no face told him, “now, Tommy.”

“No.” It was a whisper of horror, of fear, of denial. “No, no, you’re not-”

A foot over the edge. A misplaced step. That was all it took.

For a terrifying second in time, Tommy wobbled on the very edge of the podium he was on, struggling to keep his balance. The lava below churned for him; the darkness bayed for his blood. Dream’s hand around his collar was the only thing keeping him from falling, the only thing stopping Tommy from meeting his demise at the bottom of this place. Eyes wide and filling with tears he couldn’t help behind the mask, Tommy clung to its wrist, scrambling for a better foot grip. “Please,” he begged, “Dream, don’t let me fall, please, Dream, let me get back up, Dream-”

In the gaping vast nothing that made up its face, Not-Dream smiled.

“Whoops,” was all it said, and it let go.

Tommy screamed as he fell, plummeting through the abyss.

“Tommy!”

He thought he could even hear Tubbo as he fell.

“TOMMY!”

He hoped it wouldn’t go after Tubbo now that he was gone.

“Tommy, for the last time, Phil’s here!”

_…_ _ Phil? _

Tommy woke up. Tubbo was staring down at him, looking worried and mildly impatient. There was no darkness, there was no lava. Tubbo had a face. Tommy wasn’t wearing a mask. And he was safe, in his home. He was safe. 

It had been a nightmare. A  _ dream. _

Tommy groaned, dragging his hands down his face in exhaustion. “I just had the worst fucking dream,” he mumbled, sitting upright, “I’m losing my grip, Tubbo, I really am.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Tubbo offered cheerfully. “Quackity’s been giving me therapy lessons. I think I’d be quite good.”

He thought back to the one time Quackity had given Niki therapeutic advice after she, ever sensible and intelligent, confessed she was sure that she’d been struggling with PTSD from the War for L’Manburg. That particular session had ended with Wilbur chasing Quackity around the whole of L’Manburg threatening to kill him over and over again until he took a canon life, and with Niki in tears wielding a particularly vicious netherite axe. “No thanks, big man,” Tommy said, warily, “I’m alright. It was fucking weird, though. Dream was really fucking ugly in it.”

Tubbo laughed, hovering at the door while Tommy shoved socks and shoes back on, running a hand through his hair and sparing a glance at his reflection.  _ I look great, _ he thought smugly, ignoring the dark circles under his eyes.  _ Thumbs up for Tommy Innit. _

“Did you hear what I said before?” His brother asked. “About Phil?”

…Phil. Phil!

Tommy spun around to face him, a wide grin splitting his face. “Is he really here?” He asked eagerly, and, at his brother’s nod, he whooped, grabbing Tubbo’s hands and spinning him round and round in excitement. “It’s about time! Dream invited him three days ago or something! I thought he’d be here by now!”

“To be fair,” Tubbo replied, eyes alight with amusement and his own happiness at seeing his father, “he couldn’t just drop everything and run when he got the invite. I don’t know why you and Dream expected that. He prob’ly had to make arrangements, and-”

“Who fucking cares?” Tommy rushed out the door, dragging Tubbo with him, leaving his dream behind him. He was entirely fixated on getting to see his dad again. Phil, who he hadn’t seen since before the war, before L’Manburg, before joining Dream’s SMP. Phil had always been busy, exploring new worlds, making a name for himself, fighting in wars; Tommy just hoped the stories he’d be able to tell would make his father proud now. Surely they would. “You’re so slow, Tubbo, come on, come on! How long has he been here?”

“About four hours.” Tubbo checked his communicator for the time, frowning down at it while trying to keep up with Tommy. “Yup. Four hours and thirteen minutes exactly, actually.”

_“Four-”_ Tommy squawked, turning to face him in betrayal. “Why didn’t you wake me up sooner?!”

His brother looked apologetic. “I got carried away! I couldn’t find Wilbur for ages, and then I saw Fundy, but he’s busy building something he won’t tell me about, and then I was talking to Dad, and then I tried to wake you, but you just kept muttering something under your breath.”

“Really?” Did he sleep talk now? He really was losing it. Tommy frowned, slowing down just a little to match Tubbo’s pace. “What was I saying?”

Tubbo shrugged. “I dunno. You were quite quiet. It was hard to tell, honestly.” The Community House was getting closer; Tommy strained to see the telltale feathers or green hat. “Something about an end? To something?”

“The end,” Tommy said absently, not thinking.

Tubbo glanced at him in surprise. “Huh. Yeah, actually. How’d you know?”

There he was! Phil’s wings, slightly more ruffled, slightly more torn, but unmistakably his. Tommy brightened, letting go of Tubbo and racing to his father across the ground, uncaring when he went over his ankle. “DAD!” He bellowed, making Jack Manifold turn in surprise towards him, looking very confused. “Not  _ you, _ Jack, for God’s sake, it’s- Dad, Phil, Philza, it’s me! I’m here!”

Phil turned, eyes widening at the sight of his son, and that was all the warning he got before Tommy was flinging himself onto him, grabbing his dad in a fiercely tight hug. Wilbur was there too, he realized, laughing and pulling both of them into an embrace, which Phil returned with no hesitation. Tubbo was very quickly pulled in, all of them laughing and talking over each other and beaming, finally reunited. Tommy would never admit to having slightly teary eyes, but if anyone ever called him out on it, he’d blame the weather. It was awfully stormy in L’Manburg, as of late. 

“God, you’ve gotten tall,” Phil said, laughing as he glanced up at Tommy, “you’ll be taller than Wil if we all don’t watch out.”

Tommy preened while Wilbur protested. “That’s not true!” His older brother huffed, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “He’s just a kid, he’s not going to get any taller than me-”

“Watch out, bitch,” Tommy smirked, “I’m on my way up.”

“I’m not,” Tubbo bemoaned, “this is just ridiculous.”

Tommy stuck his tongue out at him. “How does it feel to be the smallest member of the family?” He asked with a grin.

Tubbo punched him while Wilbur laughed.

And that was how Philza Minecraft came to join the Dream SMP.

Two hours later, they were all crowded round a small table in Phil’s newly built house, with Phil listening in interest to the tales his three sons spun him about wars and revolution, blood and betrayal, loss and victory. The sun was beginning to slowly set over the SMP,  _ Far _ was playing on the record player, and there was an air of contentment hanging over the family in the room.

“...And then Eret pressed a button, opening the wall up, and we all got killed by Dream and his team,” Wilbur said emphatically, “that was when we really felt all hope was lost. There really didn’t seem to be any coming back from that.”

Phil sat forward in his chair, frowning. “Wait, so you- you all lost a life there?” He prodded. “It was a real life taken, not just a respawn?”

“Nope, no respawn lobby,” Tubbo said solemnly, “just blackness. That’s us all down to two lives left.”

“Well,” Tommy said with relish, “I only have one. left.”

Was it something to be proud of? That was what he had to ask himself as he began recounting the story of his duel with Dream to his father, launching into storyteller mode as he was so prone to doing. It was easier that way - that way he didn’t have to think too much about the terror that had gripped him with every number that had fallen from Wilbur’s lips, the feeling of the arrow piercing through his chest, the hopeless dread and misery that had filled him when he’d appeared in bed, another cross etched into his skin. One life left, the little circle next to the crosses had told him. One life left, and then he was gone for good. Maybe, he thought, it wasn’t something to be proud of, that he’d sacrificed a life. But that didn’t mean he’d take it back, even if he could.

Phil didn’t look like he was proud. He didn’t even look very pleased (they’d yet to get to the part where they won). Instead, Phil looked at Tommy, and Tommy knew exactly what he saw: his son, five years younger, too small for his armor, too unsure with his sword, trying to fill boots too big for him. Phil didn’t see a soldier when he looked at Tommy. And that stung. 

One day, Tommy vowed he’d make his father see him as a hero, just like everyone else did. One day.

“That’s really fucked up,” Phil said, after they’d finished. There was worry lined into his face.  “And how are you all after that?”

There was a chorus of mumbles and false reassurances that Phil didn’t look like he believed at all.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Wilbur said brightly, “we’ve been at peace for almost a month now.”

“Almost-” Phil buried his head in his hands with a groan. “You’re all going to therapy. Why doesn’t this world have a therapist in it? You’d think Dream would invite one, after everything-”

“Oh!” Tubbo sat up sharply from where he was beginning to fall asleep against Wilbur’s shoulder, perking up. “That’s right! Dream said he wanted to see you!”

Wilbur nodded in agreement, flushing. “I completely forgot, actually. That’s true. He stopped by a few days ago when he first invited you to tell me that. He asked that you get in contact with him ASAP. He seemed pretty urgent about it, too.”

The humor and easiness in Phil’s face disappeared instantly. “Did he now?” He asked rhetorically, pulling out his communicator - worn and slightly battered, just like Tommy remembered it. “Let me message him…”

There was a general hush while Phil messaged Dream privately; Tommy, turning to Tubbo, saw fondly that his brother was beginning to fall asleep again. He’d been up all night working on a new build for the election coming up - nobody had asked him to build it, but Tubbo had proudly declared he’d do it anyway, and Wilbur had thanked him profusely for it. The stage was looking incredible, though the shadows under Tubbo’s eyes spoke for themselves. Wilbur looked similar, skin pale and eyes dark underneath - he was running himself ragged trying to keep L’Manburg running smoothly, Tommy knew. They all were, in their own ways: Fundy with running his own party, Wilbur with running the country, Tubbo with preparations, and Tommy…

Well. He still needed his discs back. He’d been preoccupied with that. He’d already made his big sacrifice for L’Manburg. The tattoo on his wrist of his lives left stung in reminder.

“...He’s not messaging me back,” Phil said, after fifteen minutes had passed and Tubbo’s breathing had evened out in sleep, “that’s weird. That’s really weird.”

“Maybe he’s busy,” Fundy suggested, who had arrived ten minutes before after he’d finished building, “I mean, it happens. He’s a busy man. He runs the whole world, after all.”

“He might not even be on the server,” Wilbur reasoned, “he disappears for days on end sometimes.”

Checking his communicator, Tommy glanced at the statuses of everyone on the server. Dream’s masked face flashed up on screen, showing his name, his lives left - a frightening question mark - and then the fact he was on the server. 

“No, he’s here,” he said curiously, “just not answering. Probably chickened out. He seems like a bit of a coward, Dream does.”

Phil glanced at him reprovingly, but there was amusement in his eyes. “Good way to speak about the man who owns the server and took away two of your lives, Toms,” he replied. 

Tommy grinned sharply.

“Seems like a bit of a dickhead, wouldn’t you say, Phil? Taking away a teenager’s lives. Little bit of a pussy, if you ask me.”

“He has a point,” Fundy snorted, “he’s not entirely wrong.”

“Tell you what,” Phil said, cheerily, too cheerily, looking mischievous, “I’ll invite him to have dinner with us tonight, alright? That way I can talk to him privately, and you can have a dig at him to his face. How does that sound?”

Tommy frowned, for more reasons than one. “I don’t want him here,” he muttered sulkily, “Da- Phil, he’s still our enemy. Not to mention, he’s just a massive dickhead, like I said. I don’t want to have dinner with him!”

Phil looked apologetic. “I really do need to talk to him. I know you want dinner with me by yourselves, but this is urgent. If it’s what I think it is, then it’s more important. It can’t wait much longer. Tomorrow, we’ll have dinner and it can be just the five of us, alright?”

“Maybe he won’t even answer you,” Wilbur said, also looking slightly put out, “he didn’t answer your first message.”

Phil chuckled as he typed. It wasn’t necessarily a mirthful sound.

“He’ll show up, even if he doesn’t answer. Trust me.”

**_PH1LZA: dream, come to my house for dinner tonight! i'm finally online to talk_ **

Tommy wasn’t appeased in the slightest. “What’s that important?” He pressed, perhaps childishly. “I mean, this is our first time seeing you in years. I don’t want to spend it glaring at Dream. I want to spend it-”

_ With family,  _ he didn’t say.  _ With the people I love. _

Phil’s expression softened. “There’ll be time for that,” he said soothingly, reaching over to ruffle his son’s hair, “I promise. One dinner, and then we have the rest of the night, and every other day while I’m here, alright?”

Tommy said nothing, but sighed noisily, looking away in defeat. He couldn’t argue with Phil; he just sounded whiny, he knew that. But he couldn’t have dinner with Dream, either. He refused to.

“How about,” Wilbur said diplomatically, in tune with his youngest brother enough to sense his thoughts, “Tommy, Tubbo, Fundy and I eat in Tommy’s house, while you and Dream have your talk over dinner? And then after Dream is gone, we can meet back up again.”

“Perfect.” Phil flashed Wilbur a grateful smile, nodding at him in appreciation. “Good idea, Wil. Bring your guitar after, yeah? I want to hear if you’ve improved.”

“Can I bring mine?” Fundy asked eagerly, ears perking up. “I’ve been practicing.”

“You have a guitar?” Wilbur asked in surprise. For a moment, he seemed guilty. "I didn't know that at all."

There was something very bitter and very resigned in Fundy’s shrug. “Yeah, Wil,” he said, with finality in his voice, “yeah, I do.”

Tommy tuned them all out, even Tubbo, who slept soundly in the midst of family and safety and happiness. He was lost in thought: he knew he had to be careful. If Dream mentioned the mask to Phil, there was a high chance his father would know exactly who had stolen it, especially because half the server seemed to suspect him anyway. He wouldn’t be pleased at all - but if they made sure the conversation never turned to the mask...

Tommy made a sudden decision then and there, discreetly sending a message to Fundy under the table on his communicator.

**_You whisper to Fundy: We’re going to spy on them_ **

**_You whisper to Fundy: Are you in_ **

**_Fundy whispers to you: ofc i am_ **

Tommy grinned to himself, stowing away his communicator and ignoring Wilbur, who glanced at him in probing sharp curiosity. The full moon was tonight, and as long as Phil didn’t find out about the missing mask, then nobody would be any the wiser. It would be replaced after tonight - they would conduct the seance, get their answers, lay the mystery to rest and return the mask - and nobody would know for certain what had happened, other than the Dirty Crime Boys and Quackity.

There was no way any of that could go wrong.

_ Right? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the seance is coming up!! it'll probably be in the next two or three chapters, after the dinner, which is exciting - i've been waiting with baited breath to write it for a while LMAO!!
> 
> if you enjoyed, please leave a kudos and/or comment !! it really does motivate me to keep writing and lets me know someone is enjoying what i write, so would be great!! uwu :] i'll reply to comments i haven't yet responded to tomorrow - my head is so sore after writing so late at night, so i'll reply when i feel better!!
> 
> george's chapter next!! i'm ready to write it - expect to see it uploaded in a day or two!!
> 
> thank you SO much for reading, stay safe, have wonderful days, and i'll see you in the next chapter!! <3


	7. phil's message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream is invited to Phil's for dinner. George decides to invite himself too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back to the fic!! this chapter has almost no warnings in it whatsoever, and is more of a filler chapter to the next one, haha, which i'm very excited to write!! :D this feels like i'm writing another book at this rate LMAO
> 
> i have so many ideas for fics, but uni starts back next week and i have a hell of a lot of work to do to catch up, so who knows if i'll be able to put them into action for now :( MAYBE a oneshot will go up at some point this week, and i want to try and write the last two chapters of speculum, too, but who knows!! we'll see.
> 
> enjoy the fluff chapter!! things are about to start getting dark :)
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS - food mentions, canon typical violence, canon typical swearing, mentions of nightmares, mentions of hallucination,

Interacting with the others in the Community House had been like walking on eggshells for a whole day, and George was very quickly tiring of it. Sapnap looked like a kicked puppy every time he entered a room, Dream was still incredibly vacant, a hollow look behind his eyes - when he took his mask off, that was - and even Bad was affected: he hadn’t mentioned Skeppy once since the event. George would have been grateful if it hadn’t been for the sudden eeriness of the demon’s silence. Bad had  _ always  _ spoken about Skeppy, ever since they’d been teenagers, ever since they’d met. It was unsettling not to hear any mention of his imaginary friend anymore. Almost frightening, despite it being such a little thing.

And it wasn’t as if Bad had simply forgotten, or decided to stop speaking about him. George had assumed that was what had happened at first, had assumed Bad had watched Dream’s deterioration and had put his imaginary friend aside for the time being to help, but that just wasn’t true. Bad still looked around for Skeppy; turning automatically to tell a story to him or to talk to him, only to stiffen upon realizing he wasn’t there.

Had Skeppy been a hallucination all this time? George didn’t know. He didn’t know what to do, or how to help - especially now he knew secrets were being kept from him, at least by Sapnap and Dream. Bad looked too lost to be keeping any sort of secrets from him at that moment, but he still felt minorly betrayed nonetheless. They were all supposed to be friends, best friends. And as childish as it was, George couldn’t help but feel like the outsider, knowing at  _ least  _ two of them knew something about the whole situation that he didn’t.

So he stuck to Dream’s side, as much as possible. Sapnap might not be willing to reveal anything, Bad might be too distracted with his own misery, but Dream had already unwillingly revealed things, even if they weren’t the most pleasant - whatever he was hiding was beginning to come back to haunt him. George had figured that much out. It explained his pale cheeks and empty eyes and the way he hid behind his mask, and explained the breakdown he’d had yesterday with the masks. If he stuck by him long enough, he was certain Dream would begin to reveal something else. And when he did? George would be there to help him. Well, as best as he could, anyway.

Today… was a better day than yesterday had been. Today, he could hear Bad singing, albeit quietly, in the kitchen as he prepared food, and saw Sapnap swinging his legs on his seat on top of the counter as he watched Bad cook. There was a slouch in his posture, a peaceful, relaxed one, that brought some relief to George, who only felt more at ease when he saw Dream, sleeping sprawled on the couch without his mask. Asleep and maskless. Good. A smile creased his face for a second; his best friend looked peaceful, a lot more than he had done recently, and was mumbling quietly under his breath as he slept. Sapnap smirked as George covered him up with a blanket, looking amused.

“What’s Sleeping Beauty saying?”

George listened intently to Dream’s little mumbles, endeared to the sounds. “No clue,” he replied with a grin, “he’s not making any sense. Something about rocks.”

“You should throw one at him.” There was a devilish gleam in Sapnap’s eyes. “He’s been asleep literally for hours. He’s turning into you, I swear to God.”

“Hey!” Bad reprimanded from the kitchen, knocking against Sapnap’s arm. “Language!”

“Wha- God isn’t even a bad word!” Sapnap said indignantly. “It’s just a name! It’s literally just a fucking name!!”

Bad huffed at him, tail flicking in annoyance, and George amused himself with listening to his friends argue, absentmindedly laying cutlery out on the table as he did so. It had been a long time since they’d had this - this easy atmosphere, one where arguing didn’t feel tense and one where this casual banter didn’t have people listening with bated breath for the inevitable explosion. This was reminiscent of the old days of the SMP, with Dream and Sap and Bad and S-

**PH1LZA: dream, come to my house for dinner tonight! i'm finally online to talk**

A pause. Dream turned over on the couch, evidently disturbed by the vibration from the communicator in his pocket, but in a deep enough sleep to ignore it. Sapnap and Bad both dropped their squabble, and George pulled up the message, before turning his communicator around to them to make it easier to see. 

“Philza Minecraft himself,” Sapnap mused, eyes darting to the sleeping Dream, “I had no idea he’d been invited on.”

“Dream mentioned wanting to speak to him a few nights ago,” George recalled thoughtfully, frowning, “he never mentioned why. We probably should wake him. He’ll probably want to go, right?”

Bad nodded in agreement. “Good idea. That muffin’s been asleep long enough anyway. George, will you do it?”

Sapnap looked betrayed. “I can wake him."

“Last time you went to wake him, he ended up on half health and didn’t speak to you for a full day,” George pointed out, and Sapnap huffed at him, rolling his eyes.

“I’d like to see you do better. He’s terrifying to wake up. It was him or me, dude.”

“Him or me-” George choked down a laugh. “You’re so dramatic, Sapnap, you’re such an idiot.”

“Just wake him,” Sapnap whined, “you’ll see what I mean.”

Trying to hide a broad smile, George crossed the room to Dream’s side, hesitating at his side for a moment. What would be the best way to go about this? The troublesome thing about Dream being asleep was that he wasn’t a light sleeper, and instead was always incredibly disorientated when he woke up, especially more now than ever, after the war. He was always rather groggy and grouchy at first at best, and at worse, aggressive - Sapnap hadn’t been entirely dramatic with his “him or me” response. In all fairness, he’d woken Dream out of a violent nightmare, whereas just now Dream seemed to be sleeping rather peacefully without trouble, but still, it was better to be safer rather than sorry.

A beat passed, two pairs of expectant eyes on him, before George simply lay down beside Dream, and elbowed him in the stomach.

The effect was instantaneous. Dream grunted, stiffening in automatic defense and bringing his arms down to his stomach to protect it from a possible attack, only to relax when his arm brushed against hair and soft skin rather than weapons. Still half asleep, Dream blinked down at George, confused for a second, before his expression began to clear, and, seemingly unaware of the others in the room, he pulled George closer to his chest, shutting his eyes again. 

A flush rose up on George’s cheeks, hot and flustered. That hadn’t quite been what he’d intending, but hey, at least he’d woken Dream.

“Sapnap!” Bad scolded in a half-whisper, hiding amusement. 

George glanced over to his best friend. Sapnap was covering his mouth with one hand, shaking helplessly with repressed laughter and trying his hardest not to make noise. There were tears in his eyes, cheeks flushed from how much of an effort he was making - George would have found it hilarious if he wasn’t so embarrassed. Catching George’s eye was the last straw for Sapnap, who burst into loud, unrestrained laughter that had Bad rolling his eyes fondly and Dream shifting on the couch, sitting up and properly acknowledging what was going on. George found himself unceremoniously unbalanced and forced to abdicate his position for fear of accidentally falling as soon as Dream scrambled to his feet, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“Was I asleep?”

“Welcome back to the land of living, Dream,” Bad chuckled, “yes, you were. You look like you slept well.”

“I did,” Dream said passively, running his hands through his tousled hair, “I slept great for once, actually.”

Bad beamed. “Good! Good dreams, then?”

“Good dreams of George, Dream?” Sapnap giggled.

George scoffed at him to hide how flustered he was. “What are you, 12? You’re so immature, Sapnap, I hate you, I swear-”

But despite his grumbling, it was nice to see his friends back to their usual selves, if only for a few moments. For that short time, everything had reverted back to how things  _ used  _ to be, how George still dreamed they were - when Bad’s smile faded as he glanced to his side only to see nothing, when Sapnap’s eyes grew sharper and tighter with worry as he looked to Dream, when Dream pulled out his mask and slipped it securely over his face again while pulling out his communicator - George felt his heart sink to his stomach. It wasn’t a surprise. It was expected. Somehow, that hurt more.

“Oh, yeah,” Bad said, trying for a chipper tone, “Phil asked you to go for dinner tonight with him. George said you wanted to talk to him, I think.”

Dream’s mouth pulled into a faint frown, tilting his head towards George. Despite the mask, his unease was prominent. “Did he, now?”

“I only mentioned it,” George said, feeling a defensive heat rise to his cheeks, “that’s what you said, right? You wanted to see him or talk to him or something?"

Dream’s silence spoke for itself. Quietly, his best friend put his hair up with a hair tie, crossing the room and pulling his cloak down from the stand. There was a general sense of friction in the air - grating, static - like something wasn’t quite right between the occupants of the room. In the unsettled silence, Sapnap and Bad did their best to break it, with Sapnap stealing the steak Bad had been cooking and shoving it into his mouth with a halfhearted mischievous grin, and Bad scolding him distractedly. George didn’t move though: his eyes were fixed on Dream; his stupid, secretive best friend who was going to get himself killed one day if he wasn’t careful. 

“I’m coming with you,” he said very suddenly, prompting Dream’s shoulders to stiffen.

“You don’t have to.” Dream spoke very deliberately, words very firmly casual and not-at-all defensive. George could hear the second he started acting; he was so used to Dream’s feigned nonchalance by this point that the only thing odd about it was that it was directed at him. 

George smiled at the back of his head, pushing down his tiredness and stepping up behind him to grab his hoodie, tugging it on over his head and shoulders. “I know,” he said, as if it were obvious, “but I want to. Sapnap’s been giving me the worst headache all day. I need some fresh air.”

“You don’t need to come, George.” Dream’s tone bordered on final, despite the friendliness in it. There was almost a warning, a threat, of sorts:  _ don’t push too far,  _ his tone told George, _ don’t push me too far. _

“I want to,” George said casually, pretending he was preoccupied with his hoodie and not whatever was going on in Dream’s mind, “unless you don’t want me to? Unless you need to discuss something in _ secret _ with Philza?” Would Dream admit to it?

Silence. When the hoodie was on, George was greeted with Dream staring at him from behind the mask, lips neutral, head cocked slightly to the side. He stared back at Dream, heart skipping a beat, not daring to look away. He’d never quite figured out how Dream saw behind his mask - it was entirely porcelain, and entirely restrictive - but he just knew his friend was gazing at him now, and wasn’t going to be the first to look away.  _ Let me in, _ he wanted to say, but it sounded too cliched and too childish,  _ what are you hiding? _

Dream broke his gaze first, dropping his face to the ground as if there was something infinitely more interesting down there. 

“Okay,” he said blandly, forcing a feather-light smile, “let’s go, then.”

George didn’t let out a breath in relief; instead, it was slowly, carefully released. “Aren’t you going to reply back to him?”

“He’ll know I’m coming.” Dream turned away, walking with purpose to the door. “Bad, Sap. We’ll see you later. We’re going to Phil’s, okay?”

George glanced back at the scuffle behind him. Both his friends were fighting, Sapnap intimidating nobody with his weapon choice of steak, while Bad wielded an axe, looking put out. Neither of them seemed to pay them any attention. 

In front of him, Dream snorted, laying a hand on his arm to tug him in the direction of the door. Electricity buzzed between his hand and George’s skin when they touched; startled, George felt his heartbeat quicken. “Let’s go,” Dream murmured, “they won’t even notice until we’re back.”

Willing his face not to go red, George only ducked his head with a huff, and walked out the door ahead of Dream, adjusting his glasses on his face to pretend his stomach wasn’t suddenly full of butterflies. What the hell had that been?

Behind him, Dream laughed, soft and low and amused, catching up with George and walking beside him - and they set off for Philza’s house.

Dream seemed to know the way, despite never having been to Phil’s house, guiding George to L’Manburg and past houses and strange structures he hadn’t seen before. It had been forever since he’d been to L’Manburg, and George allowed himself a minute to stop and stare around, briefly surprised at how much prettier the stupid little coutry was. He didn’t care much about L’Manburg, he never had - he’d fought because it had been entertaining, because Sapnap had been unhinged like never before and he’d been worried, because Dream smiled at him and asked him prettily, and had never truly minded one way or another whether it became independent. But he had to admit now, L’Manburg was thriving.

He admitted that to himself, not aloud, because the tight press of Dream’s lips told him that his best friend wasn’t at all pleased with how they’d flourished.

“Not bad,” Dream said, and it sounded almost like a challenge, “for now. It’ll crumble before long. Trust me.”

He always did. George rolled his eyes. “Tommy’s house is pretty ugly,” he replied casually, and it was worth it to see Dream grin, tension falling from his shoulders and shattering to pieces on the ground, “stupid little dirt shack. Isn’t he the Vice President or something?”

“Or something,” Dream agreed with a laugh, linking their arms agreeably, “come on. You’re so slow, George.”

And he was slow compared to Dream. Then again, so was everyone. Dream had never been one for standing still or for being at peace - he was always restless, always jumping around or skipping ahead or messing around doing playful parkour even through the most serious of situations. Stillness and stasis didn’t suit him like it did George, who was much more content to lounge around and sleep and be at peace with the world. Dream was never like that - George remembered his abnormal stillness in his bedroom when he’d found him yesterday, eyes glazed over and empty, and shivered in the warm breeze of the evening. He’d pay good money to never see Dream like that again.

Tommy was marching out with Wilbur and Tubbo and Fundy when they got there, looking decidedly annoyed, and, of course, decided to take that irritation out on them. “Look who it is, Big D and Small G,” he declared, crossing his arms and smirking, “Small D and Small G, actually. Both small, because you're both-”

"Shut up," Fundy replied hastily, shoving his friend. Tommy looked offended.

"Because you both smaller than me. Do you know," he added proudly to nobody in particular, "that I'm six foot three?"

George didn't bother dignifying it with a response. None of them did - they all knew Tommy was six foot one, and ridiculously peeved about the two inch height difference between him and Dream.  Dream himself only let out a little sigh of frustration, hand straying to his replacement mask and touching the very edge of it almost self-consciously. George rolled his eyes at Tommy, but couldn’t help but stare at him, curious: did Tommy have Dream’s mask? Why had he taken it? Was he planning on bartering it at some point? 

“Not today, Tommy,” Dream said evasively, looking very fed up with the teen, “go play in L’Manchildburg with the other children. I need to talk to Phil.”

“We know,” Tubbo replied, yawning and looking rather sleepy, “he kicked us out to have dinner at Tommy’s instead.”

“What do you have to talk to Phil about?” Fundy prodded, eyes alight with curiosity. George wondered the same, but didn’t let on to it now, only arching an eyebrow and shaking his head.

“Why would we tell you?”

Wilbur, worryingly silent, tugged at Tommy’s arm. There was a contemplative look in his eyes, eyes that never wavered from Dream’s mask. “Come on, Toms,” he said briskly, “I’m starving. I’ve already eaten most of the cake Phil gave us, and it’s only been five minutes.”

This seemed to be enough to distract Tommy; his face went red as he turned to hit his brother, who only laughed at him. “You dickhead! Why’d you do that?”

“I told you I was hungry,” Wilbur snickered.

Tommy scowled. “How much is left?!”

“Four slices.” Wilbur peeked into the basket he was holding, before brightening. “Well, four slices and one third of another, if you can count that.”

Fundy made an outage noise. “No, we do  _ not  _ count that, what the fuck, Dad-”

“Don’t call him  _ Dad _ in front of me, you’re so weird!”

Their voices began to fade the further away they got, and slowly, the tension drained out of George’s body. They were so immature at times, he thought in mild annoyance, constantly ticked off by Tommy. He didn’t ever remember being that annoying at sixteen-

_ Lava. A girl screaming. A boy without a face. Aly- _

-In comparison, Dream, only seemed to get more tense the longer they hovered outside Phil’s house, staring at the door as though it had a vendetta against him. George glanced at him, concern growing inside of him. What was going on? Why did Dream need to talk to Phil in the first place? 

“Are you going to go in?” He asked expectantly. Dream stiffened, as if he’d forgotten George was there, before smiling at him. It was not his usual smile; it was gritted teeth and clenched jaw, like he was expecting something. Like he was  _ scared. _ George’s stomach churned.

“Knock on the door for me, will you?”

George did so, knocking three times awkwardly. Phil’s voice filtered out from inside, sounding cheery and friendly enough.

“Come in, Dream!”

Without a backwards glance, Dream strode towards the door, leaving George to push it open and follow in his footsteps.

The iron door swung shut behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there ya have it!! in the next few chapters, we'll have: the dinner, the deterioration, and the séance, and that's when things really begin to spiral!! it's gonna be a hell of a ride and i'm super excited about it :)
> 
> if you're enjoying, feel free to leave a like and/or comment!! 
> 
> i hope you're all well and having a good day/night, and ily all <£ see ya in the next chapter!!!


	8. therapy gone wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream meets Phil for dinner and to discuss a problem.
> 
> Things couldn't possibly go any worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys, welcome back!!! this chapter took me forever to write for some reason and feels like it goes on forever, but it's actually just a normal length??? weird
> 
> anyway, this chapter is where things really start to get spicy - it actually ended up taking a bit of a new direction in regards to dream's character at the end, but i think it works better this way >:) i hope you enjoy!!
> 
> EXPLANATIONS - just in case it's not clear, the bold text is them speaking through the minecraft chat feature, aka the communicator in this fic!! it's the best way around problems regarding lives/health/talking etc :)
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS - food, death mentions, shouting, swearing, violence, attempted murder, talk of nightmares (please let me know if you need anything else tagged!! i'll put it here!!)

“He is such a prick,” Tommy said with feeling for the sixth time in five minutes, “I hate him.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes, far more focused on listening in to the shuffle of footsteps and murmur of voices inside the house from the open window they were under. “So you’ve said.”

“He’s _green,”_ Tubbo added wisely, and Tommy nodded emphatically.

“Exactly, and he’s green. I don’t trust green men. They’re all- all _green_ and shit.”

This drew a giggle out of Fundy and a snicker from Wilbur, and Tommy considered that a success, especially seeing the bags under Wilbur’s eyes. It was harder to make him laugh nowadays, especially as it got closer to the election, so watching him shake his head fondly and try to stifle his quiet laughter was a bit of a weight off his shoulders.

The Dirty Crime Boys Incorporated were all huddled under the window of Phil’s living room, pressed against the wall and all of them clutching a slice of cake and ignoring the rest of their dinner to concentrate. As soon as Dream and George had stepped inside - “I wonder why George is here, considering Phil only asked Dream,” Fundy mused - they’d hurried around the back of the house, avoiding being spotted by anyone, and had promptly dug themselves a little pit underneath the window ledge in order to listen in; or, as Tubbo said cheerfully, spy.

Tommy personally agreed with _spy._ It made everything a lot more exciting, and kept him from complaining about the cramp he was beginning to get in his legs.

“Want me to shut the window?” Phil offered from above them, and all of them stiffened at once. “This is… you know…”

He trailed off with a mild laugh, but Tommy was no stranger to the tones of his father’s voice, and instantly sensed the odd tension lurking underneath his friendliness. Something was happening here, that was clear, something was going on. 

“No, no, it’s okay.” Dream’s voice, mild and tired. “Leave it open. It’s pretty hot in here.”

 _Leave it open. Good._ Tommy’s spine prickled with anticipation - or maybe with sweat. For once, he could agree with Dream (though he’d admit it only over his dead body); it was pretty fucking hot indeed.

“Are we actually going to have dinner here, or are we just here for a top-secret talk?” 

And that was George, curiosity hidden under the thick layer of nonchalance. Phil must have picked on it too; there was the sound of rustling, the sound of his father chuckling, the sound of stilted uncertainty. 

“Did Dream even tell you why I wanted to talk, or are you just sort of here?”

“He told me,” George said confidently, at the exact same time Dream replied with a dry “I did not.” There was a pause between the two of them, awkward, unsure.

“Well,” Phil said lightly, “it’s definitely one or the other.”

Tubbo shifted next to him, and Tommy turned to him with eager eyes. Tubbo glanced back just as eagerly, taking a large bite from his cake. 

**Tubbo whispers to you: This would be a lot better with popcorn**

**You whisper to Tubbo: AMEN**

“No,” Dream said, eventually, “he doesn’t know. It’s fine. I just- wanted to say that…”

There was a meaningful pause, that held no meaning whatsoever to Tommy or to anyone listening outside.

“...As you were my _therapist,_ for my... _past problem,_ I thought I should tell you that I think it’s getting bad again.” Dream sounded like he was being very careful indeed. Tommy winced at the sound of chairs scraping back; clearly they were just getting comfortable. “That’s why I decided to let you rejoin the server.” 

Tommy frowned, caught off guard while Phil hummed in agreement and placed down what he could only assume to be plates of food. Phil had been here before?

**You whisper to Wilbur: what the fuck**

**You whisper to Wilbur: did you know dad was here before?**

**Wilbur whispers to you: no**

**Wilbur whispers to you: keep listening**

Like he was planning on doing anything else. Stretching his legs out with a wince, and trying to find a more comfortable position on the muddy ground, Tommy pressed his back against the wooden wall, staring out over L’Manburg as he listened to the conversation behind him.

“Bad in what way?” Phil asked, ever attentive. 

Dream sighed; a different sigh from the frustrated one he’d given Tommy upon seeing him ten or so minutes ago. This one felt a lot more drained, a lot more weary. “Bad,” he said, and from the sound, he was drumming his fingers against the table, “not like it used to be, but not… great, if you know what I mean.”

“Explain it to me.” Phil wasn’t sitting; Tommy saw the shadow of his wings appear and disappear in the garden. He must be pacing. Which meant Phil - unshakeable, unflappable Phil - was agitated by what he was hearing. Tommy, personally, didn’t see the big deal yet. So Dream’s past trauma was coming back to haunt him. They _all_ had past trauma; Dream had _caused_ most of Tommy’s past trauma, so he wasn’t feeling very charitable or sympathetic towards him.

“Explain it to me,” George added, apparently unhelpfully; Dream laughed lightly, sounding amused.

“George-” He cut himself off. “It’s nothing big. Uh, you may have noticed that I am… wearing a different mask.” 

His last words were slow and deliberate. From their positions, Tommy glanced round at the others, who all looked varying degrees of guilty and nervous. 

“You lost it?” Phil asked sharply. 

“It was taken,” Dream corrected, voice taut, “I don’t know by who, but I woke up a few days ago to find it gone.”

“My bet’s on Tommy, if I’m honest,” George said, boredom plain in his voice, “everyone else suspects him too. If it’s not him, then it’s Fundy. He’s always pulling pranks. Maybe he’s just waiting for the opportunity to give it back.”

Furious typing could be heard from the right of Wilbur.

**Fundy whispers to you: it wasn’t me**

**Fundy whispers to you: it wasn’t me**

**Fundy whispers to you: it wasn’t me**

**You whisper to Fundy: you are insane it literally was us what the fuck is wrong with you**

**Tubbo: They’re on to us big man**

**You whisper to Tubbo: no witnesses we have to kill them**

**Wilbur whispers to you: we are not killing anyone, i can see tubbo’s screen, stop being a bad influence tommy innit**

**You whisper to Wilbur: you are old**

Shoving his communicator back in his pocket for the time being and pretending he wasn’t at all offended by the suspicions (despite them being accurate), Tommy let himself quietly seethe as Phil introduced the dinner, off topic: steak and carrots, which George voiced his enthusiasm about cheerfully, thoughts racing a million miles an hour. He was frustrated that things were being left out; if only George hadn’t come, he thought viciously, then maybe they would have made some progress and heard the story clearer! But George clearly didn’t know anything, and Dream clearly didn’t want to tell him, and so Tommy clearly wasn’t going to get his tragic backstory any time soon. This felt like such a waste.

“Dream, do you want any salt?” Phil asked.

Dream hummed. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

“There’s some already on the food,” George noted absently, “this is so good. I didn’t know you could cook. This rivals Bad’s.”

Phil laughed. “You forget I have two sons and a grandson, and they’re all disasters. You really think they can cook properly?”

There was a laugh from Dream and a snicker from George, all of them beginning to eat.

**Wilbur whispers to you: ICAN COOK PROPERLY**

**Wilbur whispers to you: ICAN COOK PROPERLY**

**Wilbur whispers to you: ICAN COOK PROPERLY**

**You whisper to Wilbur: wilbur you tried to craft cake with three bread on a stonecutter**

**Wilbur whispers to you: ICAN COOK PROPERLY**

**Wilbur whispers to you: ICAN COOK PROPERLY**

**You whisper to Wilbur: that’s just not true**

**Wilbur whispers to you: you are a child**

“So you’re worried about your mask,” Phil said after a pause, “and about things getting bad again.”

“Yes,” Dream said carefully, “and I’ve been having dreams. A mixture of flashbacks and dreams, I think. Maybe.”

“To… what, exactly?”

Tommy imagined Dream looking to George, pictured him pressing his lips together in a rare moment of indecision. “I don’t want to frighten George.”

George made a little mocking _aawh,_ and Tommy could hear his eye roll. “Come on, Dream, I’m not twelve, I’m sure that I can handle it.”

“I just-” Dream cut himself off, huffing in annoyance. “They’re stupid. They’re so stupid. But they feel so real, and I hate sleeping because of it. I don’t know why it’s getting bad again. Everything was _fine_ until the war.”

“Dream.” Tommy mentally sighed as George’s voice took on that subtle softer tone he reserved only for Dream: God, he was sick of these two already, did they know how sickening they were? “If it’s upsetting you and stopping you from sleeping, then it’s not stupid. Just talk to Phil about it, okay? I won’t ask any questions if you don’t want me to. I just want you to be okay.”

**Tubbo whispers to you: THEY ARE FLIRTING**

“I know,” Dream murmured, unsure.

“George is right,” Phil said, gently, “it might do you good to get it off your chest. A problem shared is a problem solved, you know that’s what I used to say.”

Dream hummed, and the three of them were silent, so silent that Tommy thought his hearing had cut out for a second. Body tense in anticipation, shuffling from sitting to kneeling, he exchanged eager looks with Tubbo, heart beginning to race. Maybe they would get answers after all.

“...I had a nightmare I was in the End,” Dream said slowly, “and that I killed Tommy.”

Silence hung over the house, both inside and out. Tommy was faintly aware of Tubbo’s alarmed whispering, Wilbur’s sudden stillness, Fundy’s nervous texts over the communicator, Dream’s fingers ceasing to drum against the table. The End. He remembered his own dream only that morning with frightening clarity, remembered the cobblestone towers and the heat in his lungs and the terrifying man with no face. It could be a coincidence. It could be. He’d never even been to the End - Phil had never allowed it, and Dream had deemed the place off-limits in this world. But somehow, he knew without a doubt his dream had taken place in the End.

“It was weird,” Dream whispered, the only voice in the silence, “he was wearing my mask. _The_ mask. And I dropped him off the edge of a cliff. And- I know it wasn’t real. But it felt so much like-”

That was enough. He’d heard _enough._

Tommy stood up, sharply, narrowly avoiding hitting his head off the window ledge as he did so. Wilbur tried to grab hold of his wrist, tried to yank him back down, but Tommy was staring in through the window, frightened, desperate, angry. Dream’s head snapped up, jerking to his feet upon seeing Tommy.

“What the hell,” he began, but Tommy cut him off, even as Phil’s eyes widened and he tried to speak.

“What the _fuck,_ Dream,” Tommy snapped, the shake in his voice hidden behind his fury, “that’s- that’s so fucked up! Did you fucking overhear me talking to Tubbo earlier? Did you think this would be _funny_ or something?”

“Tommy,” Phil cut in sharply. His father’s features were lined with annoyance and alarm. “You’re supposed to be having dinner with Wil and the others.”

“Well, I’m not, and this arsehole-” Climbing in through the window, Tommy pointed emphatically at Dream, who didn’t move except his hand, which curled and uncurled into a fist at his side, “-fucking knew it! That’s why- He was doing this because he thought I’d be listening, and you know what? I was. Don’t fucking joke about that, Dream, don’t joke about killing me-”

Dream’s voice rose in volume, trying to drown Tommy out. “I didn’t! It wasn’t a-”

“Oh, I’m sure you dream about killing me every fucking night.” Tommy felt like he was on fire, stepping forwards and jabbing a finger into Dream’s chest, vicious and defensive. “I mean, you’ve done it twice already, haven’t you? Dreaming about it is probably second nature to you! God, I fucking hate you-”

“Tommy, that’s _enough.”_ Strong hands pulled him back sharply, and Tommy turned to see Phil, with Wilbur beside him. “Come on, you weren’t even supposed to be here.”

“This was supposed to be a private talk,” George said under his breath, just loud enough for Tommy to hear, who spun on him instantly.

“A private talk with the man who left me on my last life?” He snapped, ignoring his father’s request for him to stop. “Oh, yeah, because I was just going to allow _that,_ wasn’t I? He comes in here accusing me of stealing his mask and then pretending to have nightmares of killing me, just to freak me out, it's a good fuckin' thing I was listening-”

_“Tommy.”_

Tommy stopped at the sound of Wilbur’s voice, firmer than he’d ever heard it before. Cheeks burning red in humiliation and anger, he pulled himself out of Phil’s grip, returning to his brother’s side with crossed arms and a sinking feeling in his chest that he’d just ruined things for everyone. He didn’t see Fundy - he must still be hiding - but Tubbo stood awkwardly just outside the window, rubbing his head with a wince. He didn’t dare look at Wilbur. Instead, he fixed his eyes on Dream, struggling to contain his anger.

Dream looked furious, more angry even than he’d seen him in the war - and that had been angry. “You told me he was gone.” His voice was rough, uneven, addressed to Phil. “You said this would be private.”

“I thought he was.” Phil looked disappointed when he glanced at Tommy, but Tommy could read his father well - there was a deep-rooted alarm settled behind his eyes, something that put him on-edge. “Tommy, why?”

“You know what?” It was Dream’s turn to step forwards, his hand resolving itself into a fist at his side. There was something different about him - an energy that Tommy had never seen before, something mean, something cold. “This is perfect, actually.”

George finally got to his feet, looking wary. “Dream-”

“Because you have something of mine, Tommy,” Dream continued loudly, cutting George off - surprise flashed over his face as Dream talked over him, “something that I want back.”

Mind flashing to the mask, safe in his inventory, Tommy scoffed, even laughing. “You have something of mine,” he said boldly. “You have my discs. So, if you wanna _trade,_ big man, I’d be more than happy-”

Phil darted between them, and just in time; with a snarl, Dream strode closer, and suddenly there was an axe in his hand, and suddenly there was a shield in Phil’s, and there was a clash-

Wilbur pulled Tommy back, shielding his little brother with his body instinctively, while Tommy flinched like he’d been stabbed. Every inch of his body was electric; pulsing, suddenly in fight-mode again, ready for battle. Neither he nor Wilbur had weapons; neither did Tubbo, it seemed, who had scrambled back out of the way too. But Phil was standing strong, shield raised, sword in his other hand, wielding a cold, cold expression on his face. His wings spread, pushing Wilbur and Tommy out of the way of Dream, whose axe was back at his side, staring at Phil with an indecipherable expression. It was wild. Not human, almost.

For a moment, Tommy was scared of him.

And then something in Dream subsided, flickered out, withered, and his axe was back in his inventory before anyone could even blink, and he was stepping back, shaking his head while George kept a tight hold on his wrist, staring at him in wordless shock. Tommy could relate: he couldn’t even begin computing what just happened.

“No,” Dream murmured, and it sounded like a prayer, _“no.”_

“Dream,” Phil began, quietly, voice blank, but the world owner was pulling away, heading for the door and pulling it open. They could only watch as he ran out in the opposite direction from the Community House, with George hesitating, before following him without a single glance backwards. Silence rang out in the house, thick, stifling. Tommy felt tears sting his eyes for a moment; horrified, he willed them down. Wilbur, sensing his brother’s volatile emotions, squeezed his shoulder, briefly, but comfortingly. 

Eventually, Phil turned, going straight to the table as if on autopilot and looking at Dream’s plate. Unlike George’s and Phil’s, it was completely untouched; this seemed to trouble Phil. He sighed, burying his head in his hands for a moment. 

“Dad,” Wilbur said, stricken, “what the fuck-”

“I want you to listen to me, Tommy Innit.” Phil interrupted Wilbur, voice more serious than Tommy could ever remember hearing his father before. “I want _all_ of you to listen to me. Fundy, inside.”

Fundy didn’t think twice before obeying; his startled face disappeared from the window, and instead he slipped in nimbly through the open door Dream had left, gazing in confusion in the direction he’d run off in. Phil shut the door, before facing them with a solemn look.

“I don’t want to hear anything from any of you right now,” he said, pursing his lips, “if you have the mask, return it. Immediately. I don’t care why you took it, I don’t even care _that_ you took it: you give it back as soon as you possibly can, and you apologize after.”

Tommy groaned in agitation, trying to pretend Dream’s wild expression wasn’t etched into his mind. “But Phil-”

“Dream is a dangerous man,” Phil said quietly, not even looking at his youngest son, “and you’ve pissed him off good and proper, Tommy. There’s more at play here than you think. There’s more to this situation than your discs. Give the mask back, and apologize, and then stay out of Dream’s way. _Please.”_

Ignoring the burning at the back of his throat, Tommy scowled at the ground. He didn’t want to answer; he didn’t want to lie to his father.

 _“Tommy._ Answer me.”

“...Fine.”

Phil sighed. “Fine what?”

“Fine, I’ll return his stupid fucking mask.” Abruptly sick at the sight of his dad, Tommy turned to Wilbur, and something in his eyes clearly indicated his want to his brother, who nodded firmly.

“Phil,” he said, “I need to talk with Tommy. We all do. Can we catch up properly tomorrow?”

Phil nodded wearily, clearing away the table and sighing. 

“Yeah, ‘course. It’s been a long day. All of you sleep well. And if you need me…”

 _You know where I am._ The sentence trailed off, left unsaid. It was a given, surely. Except Tommy _had_ needed Phil, during the war and after the war and every single moment up until then, and he hadn’t been there. Even now, Phil felt like a thousand miles away, a stranger with an old smile. Tommy headed for the door without a word. His good mood from earlier was entirely ruined.

“Tommy,” Tubbo whispered beside him, “Tommy, are you going to return the mask?”

Tommy nodded silently, pulling out his communicator and staring down at it as the four of them left Phil’s house. His mind was racing at a thousand miles an hour; the full moon glimmered above them, finally visible in the sky.

He made a decision.

**You whisper to Quackity: big q**

**You whisper to Quackity: it's séance time**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:) SEANCE TIME IS SO SOON!!!!! i am genuinely so excited to write it, one more chapter and then we're there!!
> 
> if you liked this chapter, feel free to leave kudos and/or a comment !! how do you predict the seance will go? will it go well for them? who knows! (me, very vaguely dkhdkfbdk)
> 
> thank you so much for reading - if you wanna find me on tumblr, i'm @dreamsdisks and @sootyshoes on twitter!! feel free to say hi!!
> 
> love you guys loads :) have wonderful days and i'll see you in the next chapter: all dream angst train!!


	9. what we lost in the snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George tries to find Dream. 
> 
> He begins to realise Dream’s been lost for a while. 
> 
> Dream makes him promise something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaa, this chapter is late, but welcome back!! i hope you enjoy — life got on top of me for a bit, but i’m back now and eager to write !! this is a bit of a shorter chapter, but i have a feeling the next few are going to be longer, so i’m not too bothered: i really hope you enjoy!!
> 
> EXPLANATIONS: dream made this world as a young teen — george and sapnap were drawn to the world by some unknown force, and bad was born on the smp. the manhunts were less childish games than they were dream figuring out how to control the server, while george, sap and bad, influenced by the server’s chaos, try to hunt him. i hope that makes sense!! i’ll probably write something based on this in the future :)
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: mentions of violence + death. pls let me know if there is a trigger i can tag!! <3
> 
> enjoy !!

Dream was the fastest person George had ever met. It served him well in the manhunts of their teenage years, where the hunters could barely keep up with the killer combination of agility and speed, and served him better now, tearing through the forests quicker than George could keep up, who was already tired and hadn’t expected to be chasing anyone today, much less his best friend.

But he’d seen the look on Dream’s face under the mask, when he’d slammed the axe into Phil’s shield. And he knew exactly what -  _ who _ \- Dream had been aiming for. Tommy was annoying, and had no right to listen into private conversations… But Dream had been  _ beyond _ angry. George had never seen his friend look like that. For a moment, he hadn’t recognised him.

For a moment, he’d been scared of Dream.

And then it had faded the moment Dream  _ realised, _ the moment his expression fell and his axe disappeared and he whispered that quiet little  _ no. _ Because he knew Dream would never hurt him, no exceptions. So when Dream raced out of the door, leaving a broken, baffled family in his wake, George had followed him, because Dream was  _ Dream _ and George was  _ George  _ and that wasn’t how they operated.

He’d called after Dream initially, but stopped quickly, realising Dream either didn’t hear him - or didn’t want to hear him. The world owner was trying awfully hard to lose him, weaving round trees and doubling back across rivers to try and trick him, but as soon as George forced himself to slip from normal mode to hunter focus, he avoided most of those tricks with ease. He didn’t have to keep up: unlike Dream, he had actually eaten at Phil’s, unlike Dream, he wasn’t fast, unlike Dream, he had something better.

Dream might have been fast, but George had the stamina to outlast him.

And  _ there _ it was; Dream’s legs buckled, sending him crashing to the ground with a defeated cry. It was snowing this deep into the woods, the snowflakes drifting down and slowly turning Dream’s green clothes a bright white, and Dream, on his knees, made no effort to brush it off. George slowed down a good few metres from him, not wanting to startle him by sprinting. There had been enough surprise for one night. 

Dream was silent, face hidden behind his mask which in turn pressed against his hands. His whole body was shaking: with fright, George thought he might be crying. He was the worst at comforting people at the best of times - this was far from a  _ best time, _ in his opinion. He froze. What could he do?

It was then that he realised Dream wasn’t crying. He was laughing.

Dream tipped his head back, laughing at the skies, at the gods, at nothing, and only then could George find the strength to move, stumbling forwards and staring at the stranger in his best friend’s body. “Dream,” he said hesitantly, but Dream didn’t react, “Dream,  _ Jesus, _ Dream-”

The rest of his words died in his mouth, cold and uncertain and small. It was only when he went silent that Dream seemed to register his presence; he whipped round to face him. His face was blank. It was just as frightening as the laugh, and just as startling. George froze for a second — was Dream going to attack him?

But the tension seemed to pull itself from the hard, stiff lines of Dream’s figure, leeching away all the wildness and the rough-edged hysteria that was so strange and unfamiliar to him. George stepped forwards, crouching in front of Dream, he could only watch as he went to cup his face, pulling away in uncertainty at the last moment. He wasn’t an expert in psychology, but he was slowly becoming an expert in Dream, and he could figure out what had happened in his friend’s mind that caused him to pull away.

“I’m not scared of you, you idiot,” George murmured, not daring to raise his voice, “I trust you.”

Dream drew in a shuddering breath, the first one he’d taken in a while. “You shouldn’t.”

“Well, I do.” He chose not to read into Dream’s words; that could come later, when he knew Dream was home and okay. Instead, he forced some lightness into his words. “You’re not going to hurt me. Stop with the angst. Besides- I think I can defend myself. Don’t you?”

Realising Dream wasn’t going to answer, nor was he going to move, George took matters into his own hands, shuffling closer and, very gently, pulling Dream’s hand up to his face. Dream sat there, unresponsive and tense, his hand cupping George’s face, until slowly he began to relax again. 

“You’re not going to hurt me,” George repeated, half to Dream, half for himself, “I know you.”

He liked to think once upon a time that had been true. Now, sitting there in the snowy forest, cold and trying to ignore what had happened back at Phil’s house, he wasn’t so sure. But Dream didn’t need to know that part. 

It had all happened so fast. One moment, slow simmering annoyance. The next, Dream’s axe had been in his hand- if Phil hadn’t lifted his shield fast enough, Dream could have killed Tommy, possibly for good. Everyone was aware of the kid’s life status - if half of them hadn’t been present at both his life killings, then they would have found out from the one little heart blinking on their communicators next to his name, or from the two crosses and the one remaining circle on his wrist. Tommy Innit was on his last life, and Dream had almost been a murderer, all over a mask.

“It’s happening again,” Dream murmured, barely aware of George and head bowing — though whether in defeat or misery, he didn’t know, “just like last time.”

George frowned. “What’s happening again? What do you mean?”

Dream’s free hand curled into a loose fist at his side, fingers digging into the palm of his hand. “George,” he said evenly, but something came loose in his voice, threatened to unravel, “I want- I need you to promise me something.”

He thought of a few summers ago; of Dream lying placidly in the long grass while Bad braided his hair, George watching in content satisfaction; of napping under shadow of a half-constructed Community House while Sapnap and Dream chased each other with wooden swords and insults; of making Bad read them all a bedtime story after he’d teasingly called them all babies but actually finding it comforting. Dream’s face had been golden and freckled when he’d flopped down beside George, bright and beautiful.

“I need you to promise that if I get out of control, you’ll kill me before I do anything bad.” Dream’s hand came up, pulled his mask to the side; he stared at George solemnly with red-rimmed eyes. “Promise me.”

_ (“Georgie,” _ the Dream of last summer giggled in his mind, breathless from running from Sapnap,  _ “I need you to protect me with your life. Promise me.”) _

George pulled away, in adamant refusal. “No.” There was no hesitation in his voice, none at all. “Dream, don’t be stupid. You’re being so dramatic again. You always-”

“I’m  _ not.”  _ Frustrated, Dream slumped back, loosening the mask completely from his face. “George, you- you don’t understand.”

“Then help me to understand,” George said firmly, “don’t force me to make promises we both know I can’t keep.”

Dream looked mulish for a second. “You’ve killed me before,” he said, “in manhunts. It wouldn’t be so different.”

Manhunts. George found himself casting his mind back to them, past the summer he wistfully thought of, frowning. When they’d first met, years and years ago, all he remembered knowing about Dream was that he had been born to kill this boy, in the end. George and Sapnap and Bad had already all known each other - somehow, vaguely, aware of the other children, one born in fire, one born in earth, George born in water. Dream had been born and baptised in the air - he’d always seemed so untouchable, dancing over treetops and through forests like he was nothing but the summer breeze itself. Manhunts had meant giving into a primal instinct that lived in all of them, they had meant surrendering to their purpose, they had meant madness and blood and killing and getting killed and repeating it in a never ending cycle.

Until it had ended, suddenly, with Dream and him beginning to talk. But that was another story entirely. 

Killing Dream in manhunts had felt like fulfilling a life purpose, it had felt like discovering his life’s purpose. The thought of killing Dream now made him feel sick. Dream didn’t seem to understand this, though - he stared at George stubbornly without a trace of regret or uncertainty in his eyes, seeking an answer, seeking a  _ positive  _ answer. 

And George realised he couldn’t ever give it to him, not truthfully.

“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?” He asked instead, trying to delay his response. “You won’t, Sapnap won’t - how do you expect me to promise anything if I don’t even know why I have to promise it?”

Dream’s eyes averted, turned downwards. George let his gaze bore into Dream’s face expectantly. “I need my mask back from Tommy,” he muttered in the thick silence, “I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t.”

Agitation welled up inside him. Dream was averting the subject just as much as he was, ignoring what he didn’t want to say and focusing on the trivial. Was it even about the mask anymore? Dream had never seemed that bothered about it before. And he had a plethora of them - George wondered if this was more about Tommy than it was the mask. Dream had never been able to let things go - he hadn’t let the war go, and, with Tommy still causing problems left right and centre, George wouldn’t be surprised if Dream, deep down, wanted him gone. Despite being a child of chaos, Dream had always been in love with the idea of peace.

“Dream,” he began, but Dream cut him off, still not looking at him.

“George, promise me.” His voice was hard now, bordering on desperate. “I need to know I can trust you. Promise me you’ll do what has to be done.”

“You’re being stupid,” George said, frustrated. “You can’t make me promise that! How can you-”

“Because I’m selfish,” Dream snapped, “look, just promise you’ll do it. I don’t want to hurt anybody. I just-” His voice cracked, wavered. And then… “Please, George.”

George was silent for a long, long time. 

“Fine,” he said, after a painful pause, “fine. I… promise to do what has to be done, if it comes down to it. But only as a final, final resort. Okay?”

Maybe it was the raw tone to his voice, or the stricken look on his face, or maybe Dream was just that in tune with him- whatever it was, Dream looked up, meeting his gaze again, and his face was soft, thankful. Grateful, George realised sadly, that someone had agreed to kill him if he went too far.

“Good.” Satisfied with this, Dream’s eyes flickered shut, breath misting in the frozen air. It was then that George realised how cold he was. Dream didn’t seem to be the same - when he resumed his touch against George’s cheek, his fingers were too warm, too full of life. “Thank you. I mean it.”

George swallowed, unable to say  _ you’re welcome _ for promising to kill his best friend. “We should get back home,” he said softly instead, “Bad and Sapnap will be wondering where we are.”

Dream looked so small in the forest, hunched up as he was. “I miss him,” he said. He didn’t mention a name, but George thought back to the bright-eyed, freckled-faced Dream from the summers before the war, and his heart ached. 

“I do too.”

And then, forcing himself to his feet, he let Dream do the same. His friend seemed slightly wobbly, so without thinking, George put out his hand for him to take.

_ (Dream bounded up to George one summer night with a laugh, music echoing through the newly-completed build of the Community House. His cheeks were flushed with life and alcohol; his smile was wide. _

_ “Dance with me, George!” He grinned, offering him a hand.) _

Dream took George’s hand, squeezing it in silent gratitude. Despite the company, George had never felt more alone. 

_ (George took Dream’s hand with a laugh, squeezing it in friendship and amusement and maybe something more. Despite the fact everyone else was outside, George had never felt more in company.) _

_ (His eyes slipped shut when Dream’s lips pressed against his that summer night, while fireworks exploded outside. Dream, soft and gentle, smiled at him.) _

_ (“I can’t believe we finally have a house,” Dream said, all four of them standing outside the Community House and staring up at it in delight, “welcome home, everyone.”) _

“Come on, Dream,” George said eventually, in the thick silence of the forest, “let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there you have it!! not too much action in this chapter — but the seance is next, which i am SO excited to write, you have no idea. 
> 
> this chapter was pretty foreshadowing heavy — and the only chapter (i think) with a certain time missing ;) make of that what you will, because it’s pretty important!!
> 
> thank you so much for reading!! the next few chapters are gonna get darker, and i hope to have the seance chapter up within a day or two. if you enjoyed reading, feel free to leave a comment / kudos !! <3 
> 
> i hope you’re all well :)


	10. the séance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The séance is conducted. Things go from bad to worse. A plan is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE IT IS!! THE SEANCE!! tysm for your patience over the past week - uni and other writing has been super stressful, and i have four other fics to update with a fifth one in mind, so tysm for being patient :)
> 
> i've never written horror before, so i really hope this pays off - the next chapter is more my style of horror, this was odd to write, but good practice!! lemme know if ya find it scary dbdkjbvd
> 
> trigger warnings - smoking mention, horror aspects, spirit, death/murder, demonic possession discussion, frightening aspects, canon typical violence + swearing (pls let me know if there's any i need to add!)
> 
> i hope you enjoy the chapter i've been looking forwards to for weeks!!

_ “ _ _ Tommy, _ man,” Quackity said, not for the first time, “this feels like the shit is about to hit the fan.”

“That’s because it is,” Tommy replied with relish, “the truth is about to be exposed, my friends.”

There was a general murmur of anticipation and apprehension around the room from three of its members; from Wilbur, Tommy got the verbal equivalent of an eye roll, and nothing more. He ignored his oldest brother. He didn’t need to start getting confrontational, not after his slip up at Phil’s.

The sight of Dream’s expression in the reflection of his axe wouldn’t leave his head, even if he shrugged it off outwardly to his friend and brothers. In that moment, on one life, in the face of Dream, Tommy had been convinced for a beat that he was going to die for real in the middle of his father’s house. He’d never seen Dream look like that before, not once - not in the war, not in any argument, not even when he’d originally demanded the mask back off him, and he’d denied having it. Something had really rattled Dream; in turn, Tommy felt rattled, wrong in his own body, like something awful had happened or would happen and he was helpless to stop it. 

But the séance was about to be in full swing, and any negative thoughts about Dream could be put on hold. Everyone had agreed to the seance that night (with mild persuading) with one rule: they returned the mask as soon as it was over.

“I’ll return it, I think,” Wilbur had said as they’d been setting up, “I can afford to lose another life if things go wrong. You can’t. And I’ll be honest: I don’t fancy your chances against Dream.”

Tommy hadn’t pushed - he didn’t want to return it anyway, not after seeing just how trigger-happy Dream had been with the axe. He was pleased with how the night would go - they’d get the answers they wanted, probably, and then he’d have a very well-earned rest. It was only a week until the elections, after all. The more sleep he got now, the better.

“So let me get this straight,” Fundy asked, while Tubbo lit candles, “you want to summon Skeppy’s spirit with this séance, get him to tell us whatever happened to him and the others we don’t remember, and then put him to rest?”

Tommy nodded wisely while squinting down at the heavy tome he had found in the library, filled with all sorts of spells and enchantments, none of which seemed to have anything to do with communing with the dead. “Bingo.”

“And we know he’s dead how, exactly?”

“I told you, man,” Quackity butted in, “Sam mentioned it to me a week or so back. He didn’t mention the others, but they could be dead too, or worse.”

“What’s worse than being dead?” Tubbo asked nervously.

“A lot of things,” Quackity said ominously, “you don’t wanna know, Tubbo.”

“This fucking club is worse than being dead,” Wilbur groused, “I’m so tired. I just want to go to bed.”

Tommy kicked his brother viciously in the shins, and Wilbur yelped in pain, retaliating by punching his arm. Swinging back to avoid another hit, Tommy snickered, putting Fundy in between them both and standing between Quackity and Tubbo at a safe distance. “Just an hour, Wil, then you can go be old and sleep.”

Wilbur grumbled in acquiesce, and the five of them continued setting up, with Quackity voicing the occasional worry.

“Messing with the dead isn’t something to do lightly,” he warned, as Tubbo carefully arranged the candles in order with Wilbur’s instructions, “Tommy, I’m worried about this, I’m not going to lie to you, dude. I got a real bad feeling about this whole séance.”

Tommy, who also had a bad feeling, promptly scoffed.

“If you’re gonna be a little bitch about it, you can leave, and you don’t have to speak with Skeppy,” he said smartly, “look, you’re a bit of a pussy, but the four of us?”

He paused to gesture at Wilbur, Tubbo, Fundy and himself.

“We’ve fought  _ Dream  _ and won.” He crossed his arms proudly. “Someone’s fucking spirit isn’t gonna frighten us off. We’ll talk with him quickly, and then send him on his way, and then be done.”

“Big Q, if you’re really worried, you really don’t have to stay.” Tubbo’s tone was far gentler than Tommy’s. “We’re not going to hold you at gunpoint to stay.”

“We’ll hold you at sword-point instead,” Tommy said cheerfully, pulling out his sword and holding it under Quackity’s throat, “get to work, Big Q. Work hard, play hard.”

Quackity groaned, and promptly did as instructed, reluctantly pulling out the photographs he’d shown before and beginning to place them on the table with the candles and incense. 

By the time they were ready, it was past four in the morning, and Wilbur’s grumbling had gotten increasingly more passive aggressive, but Tommy was finally pleased with the layout.

“Okay, boys!” He said brightly. “I think we’re ready to jump right in.”

“Wonderful,” Fundy yawned, “jump right into bed, I hope.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Went to sleep three hours ago. Along with my sense of anticipation.” Fundy rubbed his eyes. “At this point, if Skeppy shows up, I’ll beg him to possess me to let me sleep.”

Tubbo actually laughed at that one, the flame of the candle shadowing his face with uncertain light, before he set it down very carefully where Wilbur had instructed him to. Quackity was preparing the summoning circle of salt all around them, looking incredibly skittish: his wings were tightly pressed against his back, bristling with worry, but his silence spoke where he didn’t have to. 

“Let’s get this over with then,” Wilbur murmured, yawning from his position on the window ledge, “I have plans tomorrow. I have an election next week, in case you hadn’t heard.”

“An election to lose,” Quackity said, finally speaking up, and Wilbur replied with a scowl that was perhaps a little meaner than it should have been. They’d been tense for a while, though the club meetings were a sort of neutral area, a place where politics died at the doorstep, so they’d avoided an all out argument between the two of them. For now. Tommy wondered how much longer it would last. As much as he didn’t know how to live without conflict, conflict between his  _ friends  _ wasn’t something he liked. It left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Gentlemen, please,” Tubbo said awkwardly, “we have a séance to conduct. We don’t need to fight. Tommy, big man? What’s the plan?”

…Right, he’d forgotten he was leading the event. Straightening his shoulders and pushing back his tiredness, Tommy perked up, beckoning everyone closer.

“We need to sit in a circle, inside the salt circle,” he said, consulting the book on the table, “make sure you’re inside, or bad shit will happen, basically.”

“What’re the chances of one of us getting possessed?” Quackity asked sardonically. “One in ten? One in five?”

“One in two,” Tommy said wisely, just to watch Fundy yelp in alarm and Quackity step back rapidly, “so you best hope you haven’t angered the Big Man God, Big Q. You a big fan of God?”

_ “One in two?!” _

“He’s joking, he’s joking.” Wilbur rolled his eyes at Tommy; Tommy could only grin back, delighted with the fear mongering. “Nobody is going to end up possessed on my watch, mainly because this whole thing isn’t going to work anyway, because ghosts aren’t real.”

Tubbo looked incredibly offended. “They are!” He argued. “I had a ghost friend when I was younger, he was very nice and was like a father figure to me until-”

“Nobody cares about your imaginary dad,” Tommy grumbled, “get in the fucking circle, all of you.”

There was a general mumble of annoyance before everyone agreed. It was a lot smaller a circle than Tommy would have liked - the five of them sat uncomfortably close, all of them looking incredibly awkward. Letting out a breath and deciding this was the worst part, Tommy squinted down at his book. 

“Now, we pray. Does anyone know any prayers?”

_ “Padre nuestro,”  _ Quackity began, almost instantly, _ “que estás en el cielo. Santificado sea tu nombre. Venga tu reino. Hágase tu voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo. Danos hoy nuestro pan de cada día. Perdona nuestras ofensas, como también nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden. No nos dejes caer en tentación y líbranos del mal. Amén.” _

Tubbo stared at him in absolute awe. “I didn’t know you could speak fluent Spanish, Big Q!”

“I’m literally Mexican, Tubbo, I spoke Spanish to you the first day we met, what the fuck-”

“I’m guessing that was a prayer and not just a lot of swear words,” Tommy said loudly, “because I’m going to move on to the second part.”

Wilbur raised an eyebrow at him. He looked bored. “What exactly is the second part, Tommy?”

“Silence from you,” Tommy said cheerfully, “and concentration while I read from this book.”

Because underneath the useless enchanting spells and binding spells and healing spells, he’d found, scrawled in messy writing,  **TO SUMMON THEM.** And Tommy had absolutely no idea who  _ ‘they’ _ were, but he was hoping that if he thought really hard about Skeppy and replaced  _ ‘them’  _ with _ ‘him’, _ then Skeppy would appear instead of whoever this spell was originally for. 

There was a hush for a moment, and, all eyes on him in the dim candlelight, Tommy began to read, voice low and hushed. “ _ Spirit of the Underworld  _ \- Skeppy -  _ we ask that you hear our calls, and come to speak to us. Hear our voices and let them guide you to the world of the living. Lord, we ask that you grant him safe passage and safe travels to get here, and that you keep us safe also.” _ Nervous, Tommy fidgeted, drumming his fingers against his thigh. “...Please. Thank you. Amen.

With a nod from Tommy, Tubbo and Fundy extinguished the candles, plunging them into complete darkness. Silence. Dead silence. Tommy couldn’t even hear his own heartbeat under the blanket of quiet that lay over them. He could feel it, though: pounding in his chest, a rhythm that felt unnatural. The mask strung around his neck felt heavy and cold against his skin. Would it even work? Had anything even happened?

Tubbo’s hand found his in the dark, and Tommy squeezed it - to comfort Tubbo, not because he was scared, he told himself firmly, because he wasn’t scared of anything. It wouldn’t work, he told himself firmly. It had failed, and there was absolutely no need to be scared anymore.

“Well,” Wilbur murmured in the darkness, “I guess-”

The candles caught flame in a gust of wind. 

All at once, there was a general sense of unease and panic. Tubbo’s hand tightened around Tommy’s almost painfully, but Tommy couldn’t bring himself to pull away, the sound of his heart rushing back to him in a roar. Fundy looked startled, fear crossing his face - Quackity yelped, jerking his head back from the candle. Wilbur had gone incredibly still.

“Hello?” He called out, and if Tommy noticed the alarm crossing his big brother's face, he tried to ignore it. “Is- anyone there?” The lightbulb up above flickered on, brighter and more blinding than it had ever been before. Tommy flinched.

“...Skeppy?”

The word was barely out of Wilbur’s mouth before Tommy caught sight of a figure behind Quackity, dripping blood and black ink to the floor in rivulets. Tubbo screeched; Fundy’s ears lay flat against his head in horror once he saw. 

“Big Q!”

Quackity turned, and, seeing the figure, promptly staggered back, eyes wide in terror. Skeppy - if that was Skeppy - looked very little like he did in the photos they’d seen before. He was slightly older, his clothing ripped and frayed and covered in blood. His hair was flat and slick with something - water, maybe, blood, most likely - and above all else, the look of terror on his face was so animalistic that Tommy didn’t even recognize him as the laughing boy from the photos. 

“Get behind me,” Wilbur snapped curtly to the others; without hesitating, Tommy yanked Tubbo behind him, before moving behind Wilbur himself. The small circle of salt was quickly forgotten about and subsequently scuffed as Fundy and Quackity pushed behind Wilbur too, who pulled out his sword to stand firmly in front of the others. Tommy, feeling suddenly like a coward, pushed to Wilbur’s side, his own sword in his hands. 

“Wilbur, what the  _ fuck  _ do we-”

“Please,” Skeppy breathed, fear drenching the word, “please, please, don’t do this.”

Wilbur didn’t lower his sword, nor did he take his eyes from the spirit. Skeppy’s form was incredibly unstable: every so often it would crack and glitch, going pure white to grey and back again to muted colors: only the blood and ink on the floor stayed the same. He was equal parts terrifying and terrified.

“What do you want?” Wilbur demanded. “Tell us who you are. Are you the real Skeppy?”

Skeppy didn’t so much as react to Wilbur’s words. He didn’t seem to hear them at all, cowering back from the circle and from Wilbur, staggering backwards until his back hit the wall with a loud sound. Realizing he’d come to a dead end, Skeppy’s fear seemed to skyrocket; hands out in front of him, weaponless and without armor, he began to beg.

“Please don’t do this, please, please, I know you can hear me,” the boy stammered, “I know the real you can hear me, not the- not the demon. Please, listen to me.”

Demon? Tommy’s eyes widened. Skeppy seemed to be caught in a flashback of some sort - though of  _ what  _ and of  _ when  _ he couldn’t tell. Tubbo peeked out from behind Tommy, sucking in a shaky breath at the sight. Tommy couldn’t blame him; he wanted to turn tail and run away from this, forget any of this had ever happened in the first place, but his legs were rooted in position. He couldn’t move. Not away from this, anyway. He was a spectator to it now. They all were.

“Skeppy?” Wilbur’s voice was more uncertain than he’d ever heard it. “Skeppy, can you hear me?”

“No, no no no…” Skeppy curled into the wall, eyes wide with utter panic. “Please, please,  _ please _ don’t- I know this isn’t you, I know this isn’t, please, please, don’t- don’t do this, don’t kill me, Dream, please, please don’t-”

Tommy’s blood ran cold. Beside him, Wilbur jerked back - in shock, in horror, in sudden realization. 

“No,” Fundy whispered behind them, disbelieving.

“Dream, please, you have to- you have to listen to me.” Skeppy was sobbing now, barely comprehensible with how much he stuttered. “You don’t have to do this, you don’t have to- Don’t kill me, please, please, someone- someone help me!”

His sudden scream went unheard by anyone who could help. Tommy could hardly think - it was a hard thing, listening to someone plead for their life and know that there was nothing he could do.

“Tommy,” Quackity whispered, voice shaking, “Tommy, the fucking - the  _ mask.” _

Tommy looked down; the mask glowed brighter than ever, burning at his ice cold skin - fuck, how had he not realized before? Dream’s mask hung limply around his neck. Its presence was more oppressive-feeling than ever before. With shaking hands, Tommy began to fumble with it, unable to stand it on his person.

“Dream, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Skeppy slid down the wall, cowering back from an attacker that wasn’t there. “Please, please, please, don’t- don’t-”

There was a whooshing sound in the air, and Skeppy screamed when a wound appeared in his stomach, blood instantly beginning to ooze out of it. 

“DREAM!”

“Tommy.” Hands pulled him back; with a start, Tommy realized he’d started walking forwards, desperate to help. “Tommy, listen to me.” Wilbur sounded more serious and more shaken than he’d ever heard him before. “Don’t pass the salt line.”

Tearful-eyed, Tommy turned to face him, mask clutched tightly in his hands. “Wilbur, he’s in  _ pain, _ he’s about to die, we need to help-”

“He’s already dead,” Wilbur told him, firmly, “he's  _ dead _ and there’s nothing we can do other than endanger ourselves by trying to intervene.”

Miserable, Tommy turned back to watch Skeppy whimper, hands clutching his wound with sickening sobs. An invisible force lifted him up by the collar, pushed him against the wall; the lucidity in his eyes was beginning to drain, though they were as terrified as ever, barely coherent in their fear. 

“Dre- Dream, please.” Skeppy coughed up ink and blood, mingling together on the floor. “ _ Ex- Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus-” _

He was cut off suddenly, spluttering weakly around what Tommy could only assume to be a hand at his throat. Watching in horror as the spirit’s struggles grew weaker and weaker, he had to turn away when another wound appeared in Skeppy, this time in his chest - it bled only blood, no blank ink to be seen, and Tommy, feeling his stomach heave, turned away, the mask falling from his numb hands.

It shattered on the ground.

The lights in the room grew brighter and brighter.

It was 4:13am, it was always 4:13am, it could only be 4:13am.

Skeppy disappeared as Tommy fell to the floor beside the mask, knees buckling. 

And then was 4:14am, and the world was quiet again.

And then it wasn’t, with Wilbur stooping to Tommy’s side, ignorant to the way Fundy hunched in on himself and the way Tubbo shook, placing his hands on Tommy’s shoulders and pushing his body upright when it wanted to cave forward. “Tommy,” he said urgently, “Tommy, can you hear me? Are you alright?”

There was ringing in his ears that sounded like screaming. For a moment, Tommy’s vision flickered between the present and another present, another moment in time - of pushing a boy down, of lava, of a man with no face, of a time repeated over and over and over like a broken record - before his vision cleared, and all he could see was Wilbur.

“Fuck.” He cleared his throat roughly, “God, fuck.”

Wilbur exhaled roughly, relief covering his face. “Yeah, you got that right.” With that, he pulled Tommy to his feet, which Tommy did with slight shakiness. There was an odd sort of atmosphere in the room now - tense, heavy, the five of them struggling to comprehend what they’d just been witness to.

“Wilbur.” Tommy wet his lips, pressed them together, wet them again, unable to think straight. Every inch of him was in fight or flight mode - and leaning very heavily towards flight. “God, oh my God.”

“Let’s get some light in here.” Quackity’s voice shook, but he sounded more together than anyone else despite the raw nerves in his voice. “Has anyone got any torches on them? I think the light blew.”

“I- I think I do,” Fundy said, a tremor in his voice, and within seconds there was light in the room; steady, unwavering light that didn’t blind them like the candles from before. All at once, things seemed a lot easier, and Tommy sucked in a shaky breath, sitting down on a chair before he collapsed. He felt incredibly shaky; he didn’t know why. It would have been incredibly humiliating in any other situation, because Tommy Innit never fainted, but right now, his heart was beating so loudly he thought it would explode. Embarrassment was the last thing on his mind.

Tubbo exhaled; it came out as a sob. Tommy didn’t dare look at him for fear he’d burst into tears or worse, break down completely, but reached out to take Tubbo’s hand. Quackity wasn’t looking much better. His hands shook badly, his wings fluffed up and tense, while Fundy’s ears were pressed right back against his hair in fear. Wilbur was the only one who looked like he was holding himself together, and even then, he was paler than usual.

It was a while before they pulled themselves together. Fundy was the one to speak first.

“So,” he said, uncertainly, “so… do we talk about that..?”

“Skeppy,” Quackity breathed, like he’d been wanting to do so for a while, “Jesus, did you see him? He was… fucking begging for his life. He was  _ begging. _ And he still...” He trailed off, but he didn’t need to continue. They all remembered. They’d all saw.

“And it was Dream.” Tommy finally forced himself to speak, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. There was electricity in his body, pulsing electricity that kept him focused, kept him driven; if he thought about the horror of watching Skeppy get killed in front of him, he was certain he’d break down. “It was all Dream. As usual. We- Fuck, why does this even come as a surprise?!”

“We don’t know that,” Wilbur said, cautiously, “we don’t know if whoever or whatever killed Skeppy was Dream. It could’ve just been taking the form of Dream. Not to mention, that might not have even been Skeppy.”

“No, no, Wilbur, it had to have been Dream.” Tubbo didn’t sound like himself. There was no optimism in his voice, and when Tommy finally turned to look at him, he saw the glossy look of shock in Tubbo’s eyes. He didn’t blame him. “Do you remember how it stopped as soon as Tommy dropped the mask? And Dream really, really wanted that mask back.”

“Probably so that nobody would discover his secret.” Quackity buried his head in his hands, letting out a frustrated sound. “Fuck, that piece of shit, I can’t believe this. We need to do something.”

Fundy scoffed, pulling out a cigarette with shaking hands. Nobody stopped him. “Do what? Tell everyone that Dream is- is- a demon? That he killed someone that nobody remembers? I’m sure that will go down well!”

“I don’t know,” Quackity snapped, “but we need to do something. We can’t just sit here and let him get away with this! We need- fuck, we need evidence, witnesses, I’m studying to be a goddamn lawyer, Fundy, I can put him in-”

“In what prison, exactly?”

“Not prison,” Tommy said, slowly, “prison won’t hold him.”

When heads turned towards him, he swallowed, heavily, getting to his feet.

“Look, say what you want about him, but he’s fucking skilled. You all saw him during the war. You saw how powerful and skilled he was. Even if we lock him up in the most secure prison in the world, he’ll find a way to escape. Not to mention, he’s a fucking demon or something too. Because whatever killed Skeppy, whatever Dream is? It’s nothing human, and it’s nothing good.”

The inhuman wild look Dream had had on his face at Phil’s only frightened him more now. He wondered if that look had been the last thing Skeppy saw before his death. He wondered if it would be the last thing he ever saw too. Stooping in the center of the room, Tommy picked up the mask gingerly, a shiver running through his arm, but he ignored it, staring at it firmly. It was cracked right down the middle - a hairline fracture, nothing more, not enough to break it in two - but other than that, it was entirely unharmed. Tommy frowned for a second; hadn’t it shattered before?

“Then what?” Wilbur asked sharply. “What’re you proposing, Toms?”

Tommy didn’t look at him for a moment, focused entirely on the mask. Skeppy’s screams hung in his mind, loud and clear.

“I’m saying,” Tommy said, “that we kill him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand there we are.... another stupid tommyinnit plan.... will he never learn...
> 
> tysm for reading!! the support this story has gotten means the world to me and i genuinely wake up to read your comments and smile every morning :) if you enjoyed this chapter, feel free to leave a like/comment!! it took me three days to write and was probably the hardest chapter i've written so far dkbslvjdljv
> 
> this is where the story a) really kicks off plot-wise and b) really gets more horror-based!! there are also now a certain number of chapters, meaning the very rough outline for the story is all planned :D i cried thinking about the end, so THAT'S something to look forwards to kdfgsdkflsd
> 
> ALSO, if you want to keep more updated on my writing, follow me on tumblr (@dreamsclock) and twitter (@SOOTYSHOES)!! 
> 
> thank you so much for reading, and i hope you all stay safe and healthy <3


	11. nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream has a nightmare. Sapnap and Bad get an unpleasant reminder of their own nightmares. George is tired of being left in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOOO, BIG CHAPTER ALERT!! this is pretty short but in terms of foreshadowing and content it's pretty heavy - please read the triggers before reading this chapter!! 
> 
> trigger warnings: body horror, demonic influence, horror themes, canon typical swearing and violence, flashbacks, blood, mentions of death, references to past murder
> 
> stay safe, i love you all! <3

George awoke that night to the sound of Dream’s screams ripping through the night.

Instantly he was on the move - feet hitting the cold floor, stumbling out of bed before he could even register he was awake. It was old hunter instincts that kept him standing despite the exhaustion that nagged at his thoughts, forcing him to pull out a sword and rush out of the door ready to face whatever threat was facing him. He’d always been a heavy sleeper: fuck, his body was leaden with tiredness, mind still half in the dream of summer days and fairytale boys that he’d been ripped from. So much for being a hunter, George inwardly scolded himself, stifling a yawn through focusing on his sudden adrenaline, he’d really let himself go.

It was only halfway down the corridor that his sleep-deprived brain caught up with his body, and he realised that it was  _ Dream _ screaming that he heard, not the screams of a village being raided, not the screams of mobs as they died, Dream, his Dream. Fear seized him, its cold hand fisting around his heart, and George almost tripped over in his haste to get there to assess the situation and help his friend. Because never in his life had he heard Dream scream like that, no matter what had happened to him - George had seen Dream die time and time again in awful ways on manhunts, and the most Dream had done back then was curl up in silent agony or groan in mindless pain. This? This was a different scenario altogether. Dream’s screams were raw; shredding his throat, probably, in their guttural sounds. 

What could have possibly happened to make Dream scream like that? George faltered for a second, worried. Was he even prepared enough to face whatever threat lay ahead in Dream’s room?

“DREAM!” 

George jumped out of his skin, automatically pressing himself against the wall in instinctive fear of attack. He didn’t need to worry; Sapnap’s voice registered, and within a split second, George saw his friend racing towards him, hair dishevelled from sleep, axe in hand. Bad followed him, eyes wide, mumbling under his breath that didn’t get any more distinct the closer he got. 

“Dream- George,” Sapnap hissed breathlessly, “help, fuck, don’t just fucking stand there!” He grabbed George’s arm, yanking him rather painfully towards Dream’s room, where the screams were only growing louder and more panicked. “Jesus, God, it sounds like he’s being fucking murdered-”

Bad, who, George noticed, was floating rather than running, reached Dream’s bedroom first, pushing against the door and making a noise of distress. “It won’t open!”

Sapnap and George reached it seconds later, and Sapnap wasted no time in shoving at the door, grunting with exertion The door held fast, not giving even slightly.

“He’s locked it,” Sapnap muttered, barely audible over the screams from inside, “or  _ something _ has.”

Bad bit his lip, fear shining in his eyes. “You don’t think it’s…” 

“I don’t know.” Sapnap groaned, kicking the door viciously. “Fuck. Fuck! Whatever’s going on…”

He trailed off, glancing at Bad, whose distress grew notably, tail flicking from side to side in agitation. George noticed, but didn’t push - he was far more concerned when Dream’s screams only rose in intensity, the sounds ragged and hoarse and finally forming a word.

_ “Please!” _ Dream shrieked inside, and George felt something inside of him shatter and break. Pushing through to the door, George put a hand on the doorknob, twisting it to try and open it-

It sprang open with barely a moment of pressure. George stumbled forwards, baffled and caught off guard, and Bad grabbed his shoulder to steady him, but they were all far more focused on the occupant of the room.

Dream.

He was in the midst of a nightmare. That much was obvious - it filled George with relief, because he’d assumed Dream had been dying in the room. A nightmare was unpleasant, but better to deal with than fatal injuries, surely. Dream thrashed on the bed, blankets and pillows scattered on the floor around him while he squirmed, like he was trying to escape invisible bindings. Body twisted in pain, in distress, in a combination of the two, he cried out again, a desperate plea that had George’s heart breaking.

Beside him, Sapnap stiffened, flinching back from the sight like he’d been burned. Bad hadn’t moved from the doorway, frozen in shock.

“Dream?” George called out nervously, fighting every urge to go and shake his friend to wake him up. He knew that would never go down well, especially not locked in this violent of a nightmare. “Dream, can you hear me?”

It went suddenly quiet. Dream’s body went incredibly still.

“Bad,” Sapnap asked, voice trembling. “What- What time is it?”

Bad was silent for a second. When he spoke, there was dread in his voice. 

“4:13. It’s- 4:13.”

Dream sat bolt upright, and his head was twisted round the wrong way. 

George stifled a shout of horror, but Sapnap only took a moment to process before lunging at Dream, wrestling him down on the bed weaponless with a hoarse cry of “Bad!” 

The demon came to Sapnap’s side instantly, shaking hands beginning to pin Dream down, but Dream was manic in his movements, snarling wordlessly and doing everything in his power to dislodge the two trying to pin him down. The lights flickered in the room, lightbulbs shattering above them - George shielded his eyes from the shards of glass flying through the air, wincing as one of them grazed his hand. Sapnap cried out, though whether this was because of the glass that hit him, or because of the exertion it was taking to keep Dream pinned down, George couldn’t tell. He felt frozen in place, helpless in this scenario. The past, present and future collided with a screech: Dream was at the centre of it all. 

With horrifying ease, Dream’s body shoved Sapnap and Bad back, climbing out of bed and raising his hands high over Bad like he had a weapon. Bad reacted as if he did too; his arms raised defensively, and item after item flickered through his hands, looking for a weapon strong enough to get Dream away without killing him. Dream stalked forwards, head snapping to face the right way again with a sickening crunch, facing Bad - though this only seemed to panic the demon more, who stumbled to his feet with a terrified expression.

“Please,” Bad whispered, fear drenching the word, “please, please, please don’t do this.”

George felt like he’d heard that somewhere before. Dream didn’t even react to Bad’s pleas, body jerky and stiff, beginning to bring his hands down in a sweeping arc towards Bad. George’s mouth dried. 

“George, don’t- just fucking stand there!” Sapnap roared, slamming into Dream and tackling him to the ground.  _ “Help!” _

Like a statue released from its prison, George gulped, life rushing through his body, and he knelt beside Sapnap, pushing Dream down to the ground and desperately trying to stop his thrashing. Dream said nothing: he spat and hissed and struggled relentlessly like his life depended on it, but even he couldn’t escape three men holding him down at once. He still put up a fight - George had to fight down revulsion and nausea as Dream’s limbs twisted unnaturally underneath his grip, because no human should be moving like that, no human should be  _ able _ to move like that. Sapnap grimly hung on, shooting George a desperate look that said don’t let go, keep going, it’ll be over soon. 

It didn’t seem like it would. Dream didn’t look like he was tiring, or even that he was in pain, though he must be, from how tightly the three of them were holding onto him. His struggles, if anything, got more vicious, more wild - like he was genuinely fighting for his life.

“What do we do?” George asked, muscles burning with the effort of holding Dream down.

“Don’t let go,” Bad said tightly, “don’t let go of him.”

He’d never been planning on it. But when Dream heard those words, something in him seemed to change. His struggles stopped, going limp with such suddenness George was frightened he’d died for a second. Sapnap stiffened, touching his back gently. 

“Dream?”

Dream’s head began to swivel again. George steeled himself, forcing himself to keep a steady expression as he watched this - despite his intentions, his resolve buckled and shattered completely at the sight of his head twisting in such a way. How could he do this? How was he not already dead?

Dream looked directly at George, and it was then that George realised belatedly that Dream had no face.

It wasn’t as if he was headless; that would have been so much better. His head was intact, his hair the same, if ruffled, fallen out of its usual loose ponytail; his frame normal and his limbs entirely back to normal. But when George stared at where his best friend’s eyes had been, there was nothing there. Smooth polished skin like stone, like porcelain, like  _ mask. _ Behind that, though, there was something else, something other: when George looked long enough, in horror, in terror, at the faceless body, he could see a gaping void, empty and dark and uninhabited. Abandoned. And something else had made its home in there.

“You,” the Dream with no face said impossibly, “are not supposed to be here.”

_ God,  _ something in George’s mind whispered,  _ this isn’t Dream at all.  _

Sapnap snarled, wrenching Dream’s head back the right way and flipping him over: just as well, because Dream’s struggles started back up again, just as wild, just as frantic. George didn’t even know if he could call it  _ Dream _ anymore: that wasn’t his friend, that wasn’t the same bright-eyed boy who had danced with him in the Community House, that wasn’t the man who had let him fall asleep in his arms only a few nights ago. He refused to connect the two. 

“Let me go,” Dream said now — said, begged, sobbed, “let me go, please, please let me go, I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“Dream, focus!” Bad squeezed his hand tightly between his, despair crossing his face. “You can do it, it’s okay, I promise you that it’s okay—”

“We need to call Phil,” Sapnap hissed between his teeth, lying on top of Dream to keep him down, “we can’t keep this up—”

“George, your promise!” Dream howled, desperately trying to sit up. “You promised me, do it, George, do it, please!”

George froze, hands slipping off Dream’s wrists. It had only been a few hours since he’d made that promise. It had been  _ hours _ — how had Dream known?

“What promise?” Sapnap demanded, eyes narrowing. “What promise did you make?”

“George,  _ please.”  _ Dream twisted his head to the side— Oh, George realised with dizzying relief, his face was normal. His eyes were wet and desperate and there were scratches on his face and he looked ill, frighteningly sick, but  _ there  _ was the Dream he knew. “Please, please, just do it, just do it, I don’t want to hurt him, I don’t want—”

He broke off with a sob, struggles tiring, moves beginning to grow less wild. Sapnap, seizing this opportunity, flipped Dream round, keeping him pinned down but trying to make him a little more comfortable. Bad, keeping Dream’s head still, put a hand through his hair, fear soaking his every move but doing his best to be soothing.

“It’s alright, Dream, I promise, it’s okay,” the demon whispered, but Dream only sobbed wordlessly, clenching his eyes shut.

“George.”

“I can’t,” George whispered, stricken, “I can’t, Dream.”

Because, he realised, his promise before had been a lie. He couldn’t fathom a possibility in which he’d kill Dream - couldn’t fathom a possibility where Dream did something that warranted being killed. This wasn’t a manhunt, this wasn’t a war. This was Dream, his best friend, his other half in every sense of the word: how could he be expected to kill him? How could he be expected to kill one of the only people in the world that he had left?

Dream gazed at him in wordless, horrified betrayal, before something clouded behind his eyes, gaze going unfocused, slack, and then disappearing altogether when he passed out. He went entirely limp, head lolling to the side, and George caught sight of a line of bruises blossoming on his neck. His heart lurched, and before he could stop himself, his fingers crept forwards to touch them, gently.

“Don’t.” There was something strained and shattered in Sapnap’s voice; something devastated. “I have to make sure he’s sleeping for good. I don’t want…”

The look he exchanged with Bad was miserable and all too knowing. George bit his tongue, sliding back from Dream and allowing Sapnap to lift him up, cradling his friend to his chest. Nothing. Dream didn’t even move. The tension drained from Sapnap’s body, shoulders slumping, and he carefully placed Dream on the bed, smoothing his hair back from his face. “There,” he muttered, “it’ll be fine now. He’ll be alright.”

Bad was a comforting presence at Sapnap’s side, laying a hand on the younger’s shoulder, which Sapnap leaned into unconsciously. “He will be,” he said quietly, though the worry in his voice said otherwise, “he just… needs some rest! And by tomorrow, he’ll be right as rain again!”

“That stupid fucking mask.”

George cleared his throat pointedly, ignoring how shaken he was. “So,” he said, drawing the word out. Immediately, his two friends turned to face him, a mixture of guilt and resignation. “I think we need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:) 
> 
> i hope you all enjoyed, feel free to leave kudos and a comment letting me know your reaction if you did!! i'll be up answering comments for a while :00 
> 
> thank you so so much for reading, it genuinely means the world to me that people enjoy my fics!! i've grown so much more confident in my writing and you're all so sweet, so thank you :D
> 
> until next time, stay safe, ily all! :))


	12. 6:02am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dirty Crime Boys try to make sense of what just happened. Wilbur reveals information that would have been useful before the séance, and Tommy makes an important decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back to the story !! we pick up with the dirty crime boys again - in only a slightly less crazy situation than the muffinteers find themselves in. the two groups are really going through it ,, thank you so much for your patience with this chapter's publication !! i know it's been over a week, but i realized some important things about the plot and had to make important and Angsty changes for some characters :D
> 
> this isn't as horror heavy as the last two chapters: i feel like y'all need a bit of a breather from that!! instead, i delve a little deeper into the backstory regarding demons, and also try to explain some of tommy's actions. he really doesn't like dream - in his eyes, the guy has taken away two of his lives, has hurt his friends and family,, tommy makes rash decisions, and i hope this explains them somewhat!! he'll redeem himself, i promise :D
> 
> but on a completely different note: THANK YOU. i genuinely cannot comprehend the amount of love + support i've gotten for this fic - the comments you guys have left have left me in tears and just feeling so positive about this fic and my own writing. i hope the next chapters i put out will match the standard of my previous ones, and hey; maybe even top them :]
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER - discussions of death/war/violence/spirits, plot-typical swearing, horror-esque elements (let me know if you need anything tagged!)

“This has got to be your stupidest idea yet,” Fundy said for the third time in five minutes, ears flat in disbelief. 

Tommy rolled his eyes. “So you’ve said, bitch.”

“No wait, hear him out, he might have a point this time,” Wilbur said, only half joking. “Tommy, man, think about this for a second. You heard what Skeppy said-”

He scoffed, heart still thudding an unfamiliar rhythm in his chest. It felt scared; every inch of him did. “Yeah, I heard Skeppy. Which part are you talking about, sorry? The part where he begged Dream for his life, or the part where he sobbed Dream’s name over and over in fear as he died?”

“The part where he said  _ ‘I know it’s not you’. _ Ring any bells?” Wilbur halted sharply in his pacing, looking incredibly uneasy. “The fact of the matter is, Tommy, that for all we know, Dream didn’t do this. It- It could have been something possessing Dream, it could have been a spirit disguised as Dream - fuck, maybe it wasn’t even a spirit! And I know,” he added hastily, seeing Tommy’s mouth open, “that Dream is the villain, in our story. I know he’s the bad guy, alright, I get that. But-”

He cut himself off, frustrated.

“But he’s never been the type to kill senselessly. Or to kill people he cares about. And you saw the photo. You saw how happy they all were.”

For a moment, Tommy was reminded of other photos: a series he’d recently burned, of him and Dream and Sapnap and Tubbo, all of them inside the Community House and laughing at a dumb joke Sapnap had made. And then he lifted one hand to his neck, where the arrow from Dream’s bow had pierced straight through, had taken away another of his lives so soon after the first. “Photos don’t change,” he muttered, “people do.”

“You have to admit, it doesn’t look good for Dream at all.” Tubbo leapt loyally to his best friend’s defence, gnawing on his lip as he glanced at Tommy. “I mean, you all heard Skeppy. And the mask: the mask did light up like that. That can’t just be a coincidence.”

“Right!” Tommy agreed heatedly, pointing to Tubbo in agreement. “The mask, Wil, how do you explain that? You all saw it.”

Wilbur looked stumped, dragging his hands over his face wearily and shaking his head. “I did,” he allowed, sounding unsure, “it did start glowing. It also can’t be a coincidence that as soon as it fell, Skeppy disappeared. There’s something not right.”

Tommy glanced down to the mask in his hands, uncertain. It was cold, now, cold and unmoving, but he hadn’t forgotten how hot it had been around his neck - almost burning his skin where it touched. He also hadn’t forgotten watching it shatter on the ground when he’d dropped it; how it was in one piece now, uncracked and unmarked, he didn’t know, and he didn’t want to question.

_ “...This,” _ Fundy said again, very succinctly, “has got to be your stupidest idea yet.”

When Tommy scowled at him, not in the mood for joking around, Fundy elaborated nervously, tail flicking back and forth in agitation. 

“I mean, come on! You’ve tried killing Dream before, how many times, exactly? You know it as well as I do - he’s practically invincible! He’s probably still got all three lives left! He could take all five of us in a fight and still come out on top! And you want to try and kill him?” Fundy laughed in disbelief. “Even after we saw what he did to Skeppy?”

“Let’s get a few things clear,” Wilbur said decisively, “say  _ ‘I’ _ if you think Dream really did do something to Skeppy.”

“I,” Tommy said instantly. Tubbo echoed him, as did Fundy. Only Wilbur and Quackity stayed quiet; Quackity being unusually silent, a contemplative brooding look on his face. “There’s no other reason Skeppy would call out the prick’s name unless he had something to do with it.”

“And what if he was possessed?” Wilbur challenged.

“No.” Quackity said quietly, a hard glint in his eyes. “No, I don’t think he was.” 

Tubbo frowned. “What makes you say that, Big Q?”

“Look, I didn’t fight in the L’Manburg war, but I was still there.” Quackity adjusted his beanie, solemn and serious for once. “I heard about all the shit he did to you guys: watched him burn down houses, explode land, destroy whatever was in his way just to get to you guys. Dream isn’t your friend, Tubbo. He isn’t any of our friends - yes, we’re in peacetimes, yes, we’re not actively against him anymore, but have any of you forgotten what he actually did? To all of you? To all of us?”

Tommy thought of the terror of duelling Dream, and of the agony of waking up after losing a life. The wild wild look on Dream’s face under his mask after the fiasco at Phil’s house lingered in his mind, too potent to ignore. Nause churned in a ravine in his stomach. “Dream’s been our enemy since the start,” he agreed slowly, drawing eyes to him, “it’s about time we started treating him as one again.”

“So, what, we try to kill him?” Wilbur still sounded sceptical, eyeing Tommy in concern. “Is this your unbiased course of action, or is this you wanting revenge for the war and the discs?”

“It’s fucking both, dickhead,” Tommy snapped, venom in his voice that died the moment he made eye contact with his older brother. His shoulders slumped, and he forced himself to let out a breath, tense and jittery. “Sorry, sorry. But fuck, Wilbur, Dream- Dream did a lot of shit to us, in the war. And we won. Which is- great! But…”

He swallowed.

“I still need my discs. And like it or not, Dream has something to do with Skeppy’s death.” Lifting the mask, Tommy stared at it, pensively. “This confirms it. We have to do something. And I say trying to kill him before he kills us is the best plan.”

Because he wasn’t stupid. There was a chance that Wilbur was right - that Dream had nothing to do with Skeppy’s death (unlikely, in Tommy’s eyes) or that he’d been possessed or forced to do it (equally unlikely). But Dream… Nobody knew the darker side of Dream the way Tommy did. He felt he could say that with some confidence. He had seen Dream in wars, he had seen Dream in duels: he’d faced down the dragon, the tyrant, and he knew how cruel the world owner could be. No matter what he insisted to anyone, he was scared of Dream, in a way that frustrated him - scared of Dream’s potential. It was hard not to be afraid of someone who had taken away two out of his three lives; who had tried to take away his final life only hours ago. Dream wasn’t a good person. He had caused so much pain, so much suffering - Skeppy’s death only solidified this in Tommy’s mind.

They had to attack Dream before he attacked them. And it was best to do it now, while they had the element of surprise.

Wilbur stared at him for a moment, a mixture of understanding and resigned sadness mingling in his gaze. Tommy looked away, scowling at the floor. 

“All in favour of killing Dream,” Wilbur said heavily, “raise your hand.”

There was a pause, where only Tommy’s hand was in the air. And then four others went up, and Tommy stared around at the resolute faces of his friends, family; a surge of warmth ran through him. He wasn’t alone in this. “Alright, boys,” he said, clapping his hands together in a halfhearted display of leadership, “glad we’re all on board. We need to come up with a game plan.”

“Tomorrow, though,” Fundy interjected, “or, well, later today. It’s so early, Tommy. We can’t exactly plan when we’re all tired.”

He paused. Tommy knew exactly what he was thinking — he felt the same thing. How were they going to be able to sleep after the night they’d just had? Tommy was still trembling, hands shoved into his pockets to hide it, and he couldn’t imagine going to bed and sleeping any time soon. He felt electric, alive with mystery and fear and some twisted sort of satisfaction at the confirmation that yes, Dream  _ was  _ the bad guy. They finally had the proof to show it without bias. 

“That’s probably a good idea,” Wilbur said, pursing his lips, “we can talk first thing tomorrow. All of you gather back here as soon as you wake up. At least for ten. If you get here earlier, even better.”

“And avoid Dream,” Quackity added, something sharp in his voice, “because I don’t trust that son of a bitch not to try something. He’s way too suspicious at this point: we don’t want to give anything away.”

They all murmured an agreement, however uneasy, at the mention of Dream, before Fundy got to his feet, yawning. “I’m going,” he said, “Dad? Are you coming?”

“Soon.” Wilbur sounded distracted, not even glancing at his son. “I want to speak with Tommy alone first. You go on ahead, Fundy. I’ll catch up.”

Fundy tilted his head, a flicker of bitter resentment crossing over his face. He didn’t try to argue this, though, and headed for the door sharply. 

“I’m leaving too,” Quackity sighed, following Fundy and shooting the three left in the room a faint smile, “see you assholes later. Try not to do anything world-breaking before tomorrow.”

“No promises!” Tommy chirped, ignoring his shiver of unease. 

“See you, Big Q!” Tubbo waved at his friend with a smile. Quackity returned it, even nodding cordially at Wilbur, before exiting. Wilbur exhaled, running a hand through his hair and beginning to tidy the room just a little as he spoke. 

“Okay, Tommy, we should talk. Tubbo—”

“Tubbo can stay,” Tommy said decisively, “what’s he gonna do, run to Dream? We trust him.”

Wilbur glanced to Tubbo, who put on his best innocent face — which, Tommy noticed, only made him look really incredibly suspicious — before nodding, pulling up a chair and gesturing for them both to do the same thing. 

“Alright, okay, listen, both of you. I think I might have a plan.” Wilbur tilted his head, frowning. “So, you know how Phil mentored Techno for a long time, and how they were really close when we were kids?”

Tommy thought rather resentfully to how often Phil would skip on spending time with them because he was training Techno. “Yeah,” he said, aggressively, “and? What about it?”

“I know the real reason he began mentoring, and I know why it was Technoblade. And I think I might know why Phil is involved with Dream too.”

Tubbo sat up sharply, surprised. “You do? Why didn’t you mention it sooner?”

“Because I didn’t realise this is what we were dealing with, obviously.” Wilbur huffed. “Up until about twenty fucking minutes ago, I didn’t even think ghosts were  _ real,  _ never mind demons—”

“Demons?” Tommy asked incredulously. Skeppy’s words came back to him then; the terror in his voice, the tremour in his words. Demon.  _ Demon. _ “Surely not.”

Wilbur glanced around the room, as if he expected one to pop up and possess one of them right there and then. “Yes, demons, Tommy, good listening skills,” he said sarcastically, before his voice grew serious again, leaning closer to them both, “yes, demons. I thought it was a bedtime story Philza told me, or an excuse, to stop me from questioning why he spent so much time with Techno. But if it’s real…”

He trailed off, furrowing his brow. 

“If it’s real,” he said finally, “then we need to go and see Technoblade.”

“Techno?” Tubbo pushed, curiously. “What does he have to do with everything?”

Tommy levelled Wilbur a scowl to ignore the thrumming anxiety coiling in his chest. “Stop being so dramatic, dickhead, and get on to telling us.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes, launching into the story. “Phil told me that Technoblade was struggling with demons as a child,” he said, bluntly, “and that’s why he was training him, so he could deal with them. And he didn’t mean the voices, either, they’re just Techno. He might’ve meant general demons, you know, like mental health, I don’t know… I didn’t believe him at the time, because I thought he was just being ridiculous, talking about the supernatural, and then just covering up the fact he was playing favourites, but he might have been telling the truth.”

“And that’s why he’s working with Dream,” Tommy said, eyes widening as things began to click into place, “because he’s probably a demon as well.”

It all suddenly made sense. Dream’s vicious rage, Phil’s admancy they didn’t get involved, Skeppy’s death. The pieces slotted together like a jigsaw puzzle, and Tommy didn’t like the picture he’d been presented with. If Dream was a  _ demon… _ If Dream had been putting on a front this whole time, if he had Phil duped into believing he was a good person….

The server was in a lot more danger than they all thought. Tommy wasn’t about to let another war happen. He wasn’t going to sit idly by as Dream revealed his true nature and got his friends, his family, killed. They’d all suffered enough as it was.

“Oh, God,” Tubbo said, and then clapped a hand over his mouth. “Wait. Do you think I can still say that? The- The  _ G word?” _

Wilbur looked very faintly amused. “I’d probably encourage it, actually. It has to keep spirits or something at bay, surely.”

START: “Oh, God. Oh, God.” Tubbo was quick to repeat, glancing around nervously. “I’m going to make a little God sign and wear it. Do you think anything like that is craftable, Wilbur?”

“Tubbo, are you talking about a bloody  _ cross?  _ Is that the word you’re looking for?”

“Oh, I forgot about those!”

“Guys,” Tommy said, standing up and beginning to pace - not because it was particularly helpful, but because Wilbur did it when he was stressed, and right now, Tommy needed to feel like unshakeable, unflappable Wilbur, “I really think we have more important things to talk about than fucking God.”

“Nobody said anything about  _ fucking _ God, Tommy-”

“Where is Technoblade?” Tommy interrupted. “He’s on the server, right? Dream let him join after the war?”

Wilbur abandoned his joking around, glancing at his communicator. “I can ask,” he replied, “I’ll shoot him a message. He’s online.”

Nodding in agreement as his brother started to do so, Tommy glanced at Tubbo, seeing the anxiety written in his best friend’s face. It was impossible to miss. “You okay, Tubs?” He asked brusquely, to stave off his own impending worry.

“Course!” Tubbo smiled, but it was nervous, flighty. “I just found out the owner of the world we live in is actually a demon, and that he’s killed people, and that he’s probably going to kill us too if he finds out we know his secret or have his mask. Oh, God, we never should have taken his mask in the first place-”

“I blame Fundy,” Tommy said instantly, “he goaded me into doing it-”

“-And now we’re going to be targets.” Tubbo buried his head in his hands. “I just wanted one normal month on this server. Please.”

“Done.” Wilbur sat back, shoving his communicator back into his pocket. “I know his coords. He said he’d be willing to talk to us if we want. Maybe he’ll be able to give us some information on Dream. Or on demons. But this does raise suspicion that Dream is just possessed.”

Tommy let out an incredulous noise. “Or that he just is a demon, Wil, and that he’s been manipulating everyone this entire time. Even George didn’t know, and he’s- he’s  _ GeorgeNotFound! _ He’s supposed to know everything about Dream, that’s their thing!” Sitting back down with a groan, he rubbed his hands over his face. “If even his literal boyfriend - friend - whatever - doesn’t know, then surely that indicates that he’s hiding it. He knows he’s possessed, or that he’s a demon, and he’s just okay with it!”

“Probably sees it as a way to get more power,” Tubbo yawned, frowning, “that seems like his thing nowadays. Power. That’s why he attacked us.”

“And it’s why he wants my discs.” Tommy fought back his own yawn unsuccessfully. “Power, Wilbur. Dream’s- he’s not right. Him being a demon makes so much sense.”

“Demons make no sense whatsoever,” Wilbur groused, getting to his feet, “I’m supposed to be an  _ atheist.” _

Pause. And then Tommy burst into laughter, relieved at the break in tension and feeling some of the anxiety slide off his shoulders. Tubbo joined in, giggling helplessly, and then Wilbur - the three of them laughing like old times, despite the circumstances, despite everything they’d just worked out.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, I’m too old for this.” Wilbur caught his breath, shaking his head. “This is an absolute nightmare. The election is next week, and we’re going demon-hunting and meeting with Technoblade tomorrow. Why is this our life?”

“To be fair,” Tubbo said, “we did try to start a drug empire nation.”

Wilbur snorted. “No rest for the wicked, eh? But enough about all this for now. We actually do need rest.” He headed for the door, glancing over his shoulder. “Are you both coming, or are you staying here for the night?”

“Here,” Tommy said. He didn’t feel particularly comfortable staying in his own house after performing a seance there, but he didn’t like the idea of going somewhere else either. “I’m not scared of a fuckin’ ghost. Or demon.”

Tubbo stood up. “Sorry, Big Man, but I’ll be heading with Wilbur, I think,” he chuckled, “I don’t wanna stay here after everything. Stay safe, alright?”

“Yeah, Mum, don’t worry.” Tommy rolled his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

Stay, he got the urge to say, don’t leave me here alone.

But he didn’t. He ventured upstairs, heading to his bed with a yawn after seeing Wilbur and Tubbo out, curling up under the blankets restlessly and shutting his eyes. Sleep claimed hi

No.  **No.** Something pushed restlessly against his subconscious, staving off sleep, nagging at his head. Tommy blinked, eyelids heavy, frowning at the burning in his chest. What was going on? Why couldn’t he sleep? Why was the fogginess clearing from his brain like rain was washing it away?

**_No. Don’t sleep._ **

The  _ mask. _

Suddenly lightheaded and wide awake, Tommy shot up in bed, yanking the mask off from around his neck and glaring at it like it had done him a personal wrong. It stared back solemnly, its painted smile chipping at the corners and dulling with time.

“What do you want?” Tommy muttered, peeved. “Are you fucking possessed too?”

Silence. Nothing stirred in his room, other than the mask thrumming gently under his fingers. Resisting his urge to throw it to the other side of the room, he squinted at it, tightening his grip on the porcelain smile. There was something different, he realised belatedly, something not quite normal.

Not in a bad way, he didn’t think. The mask was warm. It matched his heartbeat with its noise - soft static, syncing neatly with his blood and mind and soul.  _ This’ll do,  _ it seemed to say, settling into his bones like it belonged there,  _ for now, this’ll do.  _

Tommy blinked. “What are you?” He whispered, to the mask, to himself.

There was no reply. A feeling of safety washed over him, warmth curling in his chest, and when he tried to search for his tiredness, it was gone, nowhere to be found. Where only moments before he’d been exhausted, now? He couldn’t be more ready to start the day. 

Thinking nothing of it, Tommy pulled himself out of bed, absently setting the mask to the side, before hesitating at the strange coldness of his hand without it. Maybe he should…

Just maybe…

Steeling his resolve, ignoring his instincts, Tommy slipped the mask onto his face experimentally.

It fit just right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there we have it !! tommy is an idiot, as usual, but hey, it's fine, he's the protagonist, he's supposed to do stupid things :') it just means things are gonna go haywire soon!!
> 
> thank you so so much for reading: i hope you enjoyed!! if you did, feel free to leave a kudos/comment - they always motivate me and i always try to respond, so if you have any questions or queries, that's the place to go!!
> 
> you're all so wonderful and i love you all lots, tysm for being amazing :] george chapter coming soon - and maybe some answers to some frequently asked questions?? ;) stay tuned! have an amazing night/day :D


	13. a warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George finally gets an explanation. 
> 
> It’s a lot more than he had bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back to another chapter !! i hope you’ve all been well, and sorry it’s taken me this long to upload — hopefully the next chapter will be sooner, though uni has been kicking my Ass, so who knows? hdkdbdj 
> 
> we FINALLY get answers in this chapter: not all of them, but a good number, and of course more questions are raised :D i really hope you enjoy this chapter — it was a bitch to write HDKDBDK, i struggle a lot with exposition + explanations but hopefully it’s still good !!
> 
> WARNINGS — death, possession, dead body mention, trauma, demons, general horror themes — if you need anything else tagged, please let me know !!
> 
> enjoy!! :)

_He has to get out._

  
  


“Does anyone want to explain what the hell was going on back there?” George asked the moment they left Dream’s room, heart pulsing heavily in his throat. “Do you think I’m owed an explanation now, finally, after watching my best friend have some sort of fit?”

Sapnap didn’t respond, his hand curling tighter around George’s in apprehension. 

“Not here,” Bad said, quietly, horns twitching, “wait until we’re further away from…”

George frowned. “...He’s asleep,” he replied, thinking of the betrayal pooling in Dream’s gaze before he’d passed out, “he’s not going to hear anything from here.”

“He might not,” Sapnap muttered, “but It might.”

 _It._ Dread crawled inside him like a bug, oozing, anxious. George swallowed.

“It?” He asked, but Sapnap tugged on his hand, pulling him further away from Dream’s room and towards the main room. Bad led the way, tail flicking back and forth in agitation. 

It wasn’t until they got to the main room and turned on every light they could that either of them began to provide some answers. Bad began, scratching at his arm and looking apprehensive. “So,” he began, not looking at George, “we’ve not… been telling you everything.”

“No kidding.” The dry response would usually coax something from Sapnap - a snort, an eye roll, a teasing remark - but that night it brought nothing. His friend stared straight ahead resolutely, eyes pinned on the door they’d entered through, unmoving. George frowned, but was far more eager for answers right now. Sapnap was shaken up, clearly; they all were. “What was that? What was any of that?”

Bad cleared his throat, pushing the glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “How much do you know about ghosts, George?”

Unimpressed, George ignored the chill crawling down his spine, and shook his head. “I want a real answer, Bad, don’t be stupid. I don’t want to play around right now.”

“I’m not playing around!” Bad protested, frowning. “I’m being serious.”

“Answer the question, George.” Sapnap said, voice tight, ready to snap. George glanced between them both, tucking his legs up on the couch and shuffling to get comfortable.

“...They’re spirits of dead people, right?” He ventured, unsure of himself. He didn’t like where the conversation was going. “They’re dead, they float around, doing… I don’t know, whatever ghosts do. At least, they would if they were real. I’ve never heard any talk of ghosts in the SMP. Don’t tell me that’s what the cause of all this is, that’s…”

George trailed off, faltering at the solemnity on Bad’s face and the anger in Sapnap’s.

“...Ridiculous.” He swallowed. “Right?”

Bad coughed. “Sort of,” he admitted, and George’s heart sank, “it’s not as simple as that. It’s…”

“What do you know about demons?” Sapnap asked, when Bad struggled for words.

“What?”

Sapnap turned his gaze towards George, stiffening his shoulders. “It started when we were fifteen.”

  
  


_“Dream?” Sapnap called out, yawning. “Dream, c’mon, quit hiding, man, I’m tired.”_

_Quiet. It didn’t bother him - he’d grown up in quiet, and was capable of making enough noise to fill an area. But Dream was still nowhere to be found, the sun was setting, and Sapnap didn’t particularly want to spend much longer outside. He and the others had been playing manhunt all day; he didn’t want to start fighting hostile mobs at night, too._

_“Guys?”_

_A rustle from behind him, the snap of a twig. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and Sapnap reached for his sword, shoving down his apprehension. He didn’t dare turn round, didn’t dare let whoever or whatever was there know that he knew they were near._

_Eyes. More than one pair - all of them watching him eagerly from behind. Sapnap’s arm twitched, igniting a soft flame in his free hand he lifted to use as a light source, while he tightened his grip on his diamond sword. Was Dream playing with him? Were one of the others messing around? The presence behind him felt older, far older than it should have - it stretched, unfurled around him, soaking in the light from the torches and the fire from Sapnap’s hands. It extinguished itself, uncertain._

_And that was when Sapnap spun, eyes wide, lashing out with his sword on instinct. But the thing was faster - it dodged, lightning fast, twisted out of his reach and pounced on him without a sound. Head hitting against the ground with a crack, mind scattering, Sapnap only just managed to roll to the side and avoid the other’s sword slicing straight into his throat. It whizzed in an arc beside his head, while he scrambled to his feet, dazed, disorientated._

_The glint of a porcelain mask made him falter._

_“Dream?”_

_His attacker stopped, turned to face him very slowly, mechanical. Sapnap’s throat grew tight. And then Dream burst into laughter; wheezing, familiar laughter, and every muscle in Sapnap’s body relaxed in sheer relief._

_“Your face!” Dream giggled, pushing aside his mask to wipe at his eyes. “Oh my god- did you really think I’d hurt you?”_

_Sapnap shoved him with a groan, flushing in embarrassment, and trying not to think about the eyes he could still feel on him from somewhere beyond Dream. “You’re such an asshole,” he muttered, “I thought I was being properly attacked by some mob or something! I didn’t know it was you! And you’re late!”_

_Dream nudged him fondly, still chuckling, and shaking his head in amusement._

_“I wouldn’t ever hurt you, come on, you know that.” He tugged the mask back over his face. “We’re past that now, right? We’re friends.”_

_Sapnap grinned, pushing aside his wariness and beginning to lead Dream back to camp._

_“Obviously, idiot. Best friends.”_

  
  
  


_“Dream?” Sapnap paused at the sight of his friend standing motionless in the middle of the campsite, frighteningly still. Things had been different for a few weeks now - Dream had been different. Moodier. Snappier. He didn’t sleep, and tonight seemed to be no exception. But Dream seemed like a statue, pale and still in the dim moonlight, and Sapnap felt the prickle of unease trickle down his spine. “You alright?”_

_Dream didn’t move, didn’t even twitch. “Go back to sleep, Sapnap,” he said, voice tinny, wrong, “you must be tired, right?”_

_“Aren’t you?” Sapnap returned, stepping closer. “How long has it been since you’ve slept, huh? Three days? More? I don’t even know how you’re still stand-”_

_He cut himself off, voice giving out, when Dream turned towards him, because something wasn’t right with Dream’s face._

_It was like looking at a photograph that had been cut into thousands of tiny pieces and taped back together again. Outwardly, nothing seemed too amiss - there were bags under his eyes, and his skin was pale, clammy, but otherwise he looked fine. But Sapnap knew Dream, even better than he knew himself, and he could tell when something wasn’t right. And in this case, something was missing, something essential._

_“Go back to bed, Sap.” Dream’s voice booked no argument. “You’re tired, right?”_

_Sapnap couldn’t speak for a second. “What’s happened to you?”_

_“Sapnap. Go to bed.”_

_Except it wasn’t just Dream speaking. There was something ancient behind his words, something that sang with the voice of the night and echoed with the souls of thousands. Sapnap recoiled; frightened, genuinely frightened, and found himself taken a step back. And then the presence was gone, leaving Dream and he alone in the room, leaving Dream to sag like all the life had been sucked out from him._

_“Sorry,” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact, “I guess I am tired. I didn’t mean to snap.”_

_“It’s whatever.” Sapnap didn’t look at him either, feeling something like anxiety gnaw at his chest. “Are you sure that’s all it is?”_

_Dream shrugged, turning away and pulling off his mask for bed. “What else could it be?”_

_That was fair. Sapnap fidgeted, hovering._

_“Sap?”_

_“Yeah?”_

_Dream’s voice was unusually soft when he next spoke. “You’re always gonna be there, right? We’re always going to be friends.”_

_“Best friends,” Sapnap agreed, because how could he not? “I promise.”_

  
  


_He has to get out._

  
  


_“Dream?”_

_The thud of a body falling to the floor. A scraping laugh, low and malicious. Sapnap froze in the doorway, frozen in time, frozen in place. Skeppy lay at Dream’s feet, not breathing, not moving._

_“No.” It came out choked, horrified. “No, no, Dream.”_

_Dream’s smile was too wide and too angular on his face. It split his cheeks, grew only bigger at Sapnap’s horror._

_“We’re always gonna be best friends, right, Sap?” Something mocked through Dream’s throat, using Dream’s voice. “You promised.”_

_And then he lunged, face twisting underneath his mask, and Sapnap lifted his sword, desperate, fighting for his life against-_

  
  


“...We don’t actually know what it was,” Bad said quietly, choked up at Sapnap’s last story, “but we know that whatever it was, it wasn’t our Dream. Because we know he would never-”

He cut himself off, clearing his throat very roughly and blinking to clear his eyes. George couldn’t do anything, couldn’t say anything - his words were frozen in his throat, trapped behind a layer of horror and disbelief. Because demons didn’t exist. Not demons like that - yes, creatures like Bad came from the Nether and could be seen as demons, but they weren’t necessarily malicious. This creature possessing Dream sounded like something straight out of a horror movie. 

“But…” He began, struggling to formulate a coherent sentence. “But- he’s not like that anymore. He’s not possessed anymore, right? We would know.”

Sapnap scoffed tightly. “Right, we would know,” he agreed, something hard and mocking in his voice, “at least, we would if you’d maybe let Dream go to Phil’s by himself.”

“...What?”

“Come on, George, you’re not an idiot.” Sapnap didn’t look at him, gaze fixed on the space beside George’s head. There was fire in his gaze, smouldering, dark. “You have to know you should have let him go alone. You know he was going to discuss things with Philza, so-”

George scowled, defensive, overwhelmed. “What does Philza have anything to do with this?”

“Fucking everything!” Sapnap snapped. “He’s the one that helped Dream after everything, he’s the one that kept him and the rest of us sane after we got Dream back! He caught wind we’d struggled with the thing, and came to help.”

Phil had known. It was with a sinking feeling in his chest that he recalled his and Dream’s trip to Philza’s; with a nauseous pulsing in his heart that he remembered Dream’s secrecy and Phil’s automatic understanding. Earlier in the night, the whole meeting had flown from his mind - he’d been more worried about Tommy and then Dream after he’d run off. The actual contents of the dinner itself had slipped from him. 

_(“Did Dream even tell you why I wanted to talk, or are you just sort of here?”_

_“He told me-”_

_“I did not.”)_

Dry, but not annoyed, because when was Dream ever annoyed with him? Guilt devoured him for a second, swarming through his chest and throat, but George pushed it down, defensive, glaring at Sapnap.

“You should have told me not to go!” He protested, ignoring Bad’s request to stop fighting. “Maybe if you hadn’t lied to me for days on end about Dream and had actually made me feel less worried about him, I would have listened and let him go! I wouldn’t have pried!”

Sapnap rolled his eyes. “Oh, so now you need my guidance on when it’s okay to break boundaries? Great to know, I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Why are you like this?” Something burned in George’s eyes; horrified, he pushed the potential tears back, stiffening his resolve. Like hell he was going to cry in an argument with Sapnap. “I wasn’t trying to break boundaries, I just wanted to know that he was okay, because it didn’t look like anyone was doing anything about it to help him!”

“GUYS!” 

Both of them jumped at Bad’s shout, Sapnap flinching, George turning to face him. There was frustration written over their friend’s face; frustration and exhaustion. Looking between them both beseechingly, Bad’s voice was very deliberately bright when he spoke, despite his face being anything but.

“This isn’t helping anything. Look, okay, so we all muffined up a little. That’s in the past, okay? We need to band together to help Dream. We don’t want another incident like-” He caught Sapnap’s eyes, looking away quickly, uneasily. “-like last time. We need to get Dream’s mask back.”

George blinked, thrown by the sudden change in topic. “His mask? The one that was stolen?”

“The one Tommy probably has,” Sapnap corrected. He still looked rather mutinously at George, but otherwise, he contributed fairly. “We need to get it off him. The mask helped keep the dreamon at bay- That’s what Philza calls the thing in Dream, by the way,” he added, glancing to George, “a dreamon.”

A dreamon. Why did he feel like he’d heard that somewhere before? George frowned, trying to keep himself focused. “So you think getting the mask back will stop all this?”

“Hopefully,” Bad agreed with a sigh, “we can’t say for certain. There’s so much we don’t know, but… the combination of the mask and keeping in daily contact with Philza should help. That’s all we can do.”

“We thought we’d gotten rid of it before,” Sapnap muttered, troubled. “I don’t understand why it’s back. How it’s back. We destroyed it in the-”

“In any case!” Bad’s tail flicked back and forth, agitated. “Clearly, it’s not gone, because that- that wasn’t Dream back there. That was… That was whatever killed…”

Silence hung, heavy, weighty. George’s mouth was dry: licking his lips did nothing to solve it. He knew what - who - they were talking about: Sapanp’s story about Skeppy had been incredibly vague, but enough to paint a picture in blood that George wished he hadn’t cottoned on. So Skeppy had been real. He didn’t dare ask Bad whether he could see his ghost (he was supposed to be an atheist, and the revelation of ghosts was throwing a spanner in the works for him) or whether he was hallucinating - he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, anyway. 

_He has to get out._

“What was that?” George finally asked, breaking the silence uncomfortably. “Upstairs? Some kind of… flashback?”

Bad sighed. “It was- It was… after his death,” he said, softly, voice catching, “Skeppy’s death. I recognised it from… I was there, at the time. I watched Skeppy die, and, that was what happened after to me. The dreamon attacked me, and I…”

“If it hadn’t been for- for someone intervening, Bad would be dead,” Sapnap muttered, wiping roughly at his face, “it was bad, George. I mean that. Really bad.”

“But-” George dragged a hand down his face, frowning, and trying not to realise that the terror he’d seen on Bad’s face upstairs had been terror in what he’d assumed to be his imminent death. “But why tonight? Why specifically tonight? Is it the anniversary? Or is it random?”

Bad sighed. “It was 4:13,” he said, simply, as if that explained everything to George.

And then it sort of did. George’s eyes narrowed: he remembered the clock on the wall at Philza’s, and the numbers flickering over the radio when Dream had been entranced. And he remembered other times, too - where Dream had casually asked the time and relaxed in sheer relief every time it was any time other than 4:13, remembered the late night conversations he’d sometimes hear between Sapnap and Dream, remembered Bad refusing to leave the house on the thirteenth of April (remembered himself not understanding, remembered himself dismissing it, remembered himself oblivious). “4:13,” he said, and Sapnap looked away, “it’s important.”

“The time Skeppy died,” Sapnap replied, swallowing heavily, “and potentially the time Dream first got possessed at. We were supposed to meet at 4pm - he was late, and I didn’t take an exact note of how late, but it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes. So it’s possible it signifies that, too, or something.”

Or something. George’s mind raced, feverish and struggling to process everything he’d found out. There was a fog in his head, heavy and syrupy, making it nearly impossible to properly comprehend everything he was being told. One thing was evident, though - they had to act quickly. If they didn’t…

_(“...I had a nightmare I was in the End… and that I killed Tommy.”)_

“Well, shouldn’t we wake up Dream and go now to get the mask from Tommy?” He prompted, and Sapnap, agonisingly full of nervous adrenaline, all but leapt to his feet, nodding in agreement. 

Bad looked hesitant. “Maybe we should let him sleep,” he said uncertainly, but Sapnap shook his head, bounding to the door and hovering there eagerly, “he’s going to be drained and tired.”

“Well, he might get actually possessed again if we leave it til morning,” Sapnap said tightly, “let’s just go wake him, okay? Everything will be fine once we get the goddamn mask.”

Minds made up, George followed Sapnap and was followed by Bad towards Dream’s room again. There was a low pitched humming in the night air that George didn’t think much of: it danced over his skin, humming a tune he couldn’t quite hear or pay attention to.

**_It has to escape._ **

Until the humming died down when Bad pushed open the door, and the three of them stepped inside in complete dismay and horror.

In a room with a locked window and only one intact entrance, Dream had vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :DDD CLIFFHANGER TIME WOOOOOO
> 
> i hope you enjoyed !! if you did, feel free to leave kudos and/or a comment — they mean the world to me and i’ll be replying to all comments tonight/tomorrow :] 
> 
> i hope y’all are ready: this is when the main action of the plot begins to kick in....
> 
> see you all in the next chapter :D

**Author's Note:**

> aaand there's the prologue!! this is the last you'll hear from dream's pov (or is it? heh) as the protagonists we'll be switching between are tommy and george - tommy's chapter will hopefully (fingers crossed) be up soon!!
> 
> i hope you enjoyed; as always, PLEASE leave a kudos and/or a comment if you did!! it seriously encourages writers when this happens and i'm no exception. stay tuned - more to come soon!!
> 
> ily all <3


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